


The Great Hannigram Escape

by darlinghogwarts, MaddyHughes



Series: The Great Hannigram Escape [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlinghogwarts/pseuds/darlinghogwarts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham joins Hannibal Lecter on the run across Europe. On the way things become darker, deeper, more emotional, and very, very bloody...</p><p>This is adapted from an ongoing RP on Twitter between our alter egos @legohannibal and @william_grahams. The title was devised by @kt_adrienne (peppermintquartz).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peppermintquartz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/gifts).



> After the wounds have healed, Hannibal and Will both feel an absence...

Hannibal’s desk at the Palazzo Capponi in Florence is only temporarily his—at least until the directors of the Uffizi and the Belle Arti Commission agree on his competence to curate the works of Dante Alighieri. The desk is a vast, mahogany affair, carved with cherubs and covered with gilted green leather; his predecessor, who has met an unfortunate end, was not given to understated furnishings.

Hannibal Lecter, known now as Dr Fell, sits at this desk in a vast painted room, cases of antiquities around him. He opens a book of anatomical drawings and sharpens his pencil with a scalpel.

He begins to draw a human heart.

He did not touch Will Graham’s heart with his knife. He cut, quite deliberately, in such a way that his knife missed vital organs, so that the FBI agent would live. 

He thought he had touched Will’s true heart: the one that loved. But it has been months now, long enough for Will to heal, long enough for Will to look, and Will Graham has not yet found him.

Hannibal traces the ascending aorta, the aortic arch, the vena cava, and he thinks about his own heart, beating in his own chest, and how it feels, somehow, unexpectedly, hollow.

**

For a long time, Will Graham doesn’t know if he’s awake. 

But then again, when does he ever?

He feels content, and perhaps even serene. He has seven dogs, a stable income, and cordial relations with all his colleagues.

And that, perhaps, is an obvious giveaway.

Will has realized over time, that contentment doesn’t last. It isn’t possible to ever be just content. There is always an underlying urgency, a constant pressure. Yes, perhaps there are days of peace. But that is exactly what they are: days. Eternal peace is only an indication of death. 

Pain is a reminder of existence. He doesn’t trust the lack of pain. And as he floats, feeling the warmth of the “sun” on his skin, Will wonders if he’d rather be drowning in his nightmares. 

Time doesn’t exist. 

Either minutes or weeks could have passed when he feels a sharp stab of agony. Will doesn’t know where it comes from, and he doesn’t welcome it, but it does give him a sense of reality. The sharp stab is replaced by a dull ache. It eventually disappears again. It’s a constant cycle, each one longer than the last. 

The cycle breaks one day, when the sharp pain comes with awareness. He gasps, and his eyes shoot open. His hand, heavier than it has ever felt, makes a weak grab at the tubes scraping against his throat. His senses are overwhelmed, and everything is too much. He hears the door slamming open; the sound is almost warped. Twisted. Nonetheless, he recognizes it. 

Over the next few days, he hears many voices. He doesn’t remember them—doesn’t even recognize them—but he does remember the distinct lack of one voice. A deep, calming, accented voice. 

Some voices are accompanied by the slow disappearance of pain; a pool of tranquility. Others are accompanied by a faint, fresh essence. Flowers? 

The first time Will opens his eyes, he realizes that the “sun” is a harsh light located directly above his bed. He blinks, turning his head away from the glaring light. He faintly recalls a nurse, smiling down at him kindly, and a doctor, asking him questions. 

He isn’t alert for long, but he does find it out that he had been in a medically induced coma for ten days. The nurse informs him that none of his vital organs were touched, and that he’ll be making a full recovery. The scar, however, will stay. An eternal reminder. 

It isn’t until they broach the subject of his injury that he remembers. The absence of a certain voice suddenly becomes clear. 

Somehow, the memories hurt more than the excruciating pain from his wound. 

Good. 

It means he isn’t dreaming. 

**

The second time he opens his eyes, there are people in his room. Price smiles weakly. Zeller nods, swallowing heavily. Alana is noticeably absent. 

“Alana?” 

Zeller shakes his head, and for a second, Will feels his heart stop. His chest tightens almost painfully.

“She… hasn’t woken up yet.” 

And he can breathe again.

Will knows that another loss would kill him. It’s odd, he thinks to himself, how even in loss, humans are selfish. Will feels pain because Alana’s death would mean that he would never see her again. Her kind smile, her eyes. 

Her death would mean that she would forever be inaccessible to him. 

He would weep not for her death, but for his own loss. 

The doctors don’t know when she will wake up; they don’t know if she will ever make a full recovery. And yet, Will feels relief. Relief that she isn’t just out of his own reach, but also out of Hannibal’s reach. 

He doesn’t want to think about the implications of his jealousy. 

They talk for some time, quietly. After an hour, Zeller smiles apologetically, and they leave. Will doesn’t need to use his “ability” to know that they are uncomfortable in his presence. 

For the first time since that night, he laughs. It’s a hollow sound. He stops almost immediately, clutching his stomach. The pain is sharp, agonizing. Not for the first time, Will smiles bitterly at the fact that this pain pales in comparison to the bleeding wounds in his mind. 

His empathy is the reason why they all want him. It is also the reason none of them want him. 

Will used to be grateful that the people around him wanted him despite his “gift” and all the traits that come with it. However, there was one person in this world who wanted him _for_ his gift. A man who mercilessly plunged his knife into Will’s stomach. A man who killed their daughter. 

He roughly pushes these thoughts at the back of his mind. His wounds continue to bleed. 

Jack is his third visitor. He enters the room, and wordlessly places two thick files in his lap. Will raises his eyebrows, disbelief clear on his face. He hears a soft whisper next to his ear. _Rude. How very rude._

“People are dying.” 

Some things never change. 

Jack stays for a few minutes, updating him on the hunt for “Hannibal the cannibal”, and a new case that has been plaguing them for the past two weeks. He wishes him a good recovery, and walks out the door before Will even knows he was there. 

Will’s hands are trembling as he picks up his file. He slowly opens it, breathing heavily as he sees Hannibal Lecter’s picture. He gasps loudly, and suddenly, he’s slipping into the Ripper’s mind. 

A cold draft chills him, his fingers slowly becoming numb. It’s cold, it’s so cold. Every movement is calculated, every step, every action, every word is deliberate. 

A vast ocean, wild and yet controlled. 

The Ripper is aware of his every action, aware of the social constructs of right and wrong, and yet he chooses to pave his own path. Boundaries aren’t significant enough even to be mere annoyances. If the path strays, it can be manipulated. If the road breaks, he effortlessly leaps over it. 

Waves crash against the bank, powerful and strong. From the mist, a dark figure strides towards him, his feet light and barely touching the ground. His eyes are the color of drying blood. His lips are pulled into a smirk, capable of both kindness and cruelty. 

A calm, accented voice.

“This is my design.”

And he’s back in the hospital room. Will’s hands are shaking. He closes the file, placing it neatly on his bedside table. He looks at the other file in his hand, his heart beating uncontrollably. He doesn’t want to look. 

He can’t do this. 

He can’t do this. 

**

Will spends two more weeks in the hospital. The stabbing pain from his wound is now a dull ache. The gaping wound in his mind, however, continues to bleed, the pain more excruciating every day. 

Jack visits a few more times with updates on the case. He doesn’t pressure Will, but does tell him that he eventually expects him to look. 

On the day he has to leave, the FBI sends an agent with his car. 

He thanks the agent and steps inside his car with his belongings and the countless medications he needs to take. The very first thought is his canine family. He hasn’t seen them in nearly a month. Jack had reassured him that an agent had been going to his house every single day to feed his dogs, and to make sure they were having their daily exercise. Despite his reassurances, Will needs to see his dogs, he needs to know that they've been well cared for. 

However, not even the thought of his dogs is enough to stop Will from driving straight to Baltimore. 

Hannibal Lecter’s house, as intimidating as man himself, looks unkempt. 

The area is closed off to civilians, and a few police officers are patrolling the area. If Will wasn’t as tense as he is, he would smirk. Only the Chesapeake Ripper could ensure evidence management even two months after his absence.

Will flashes his badge to the police officer standing in the front, and wordlessly strides into the house, inwardly cringing at his own rudeness. 

The crime scene has been cleaned up, and Will is thankful for that. He is as unstable as he has always been, and doesn’t want to find out what reliving that night would do to him. 

If Will didn’t know this was Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s house, he would never believe it. It is, for lack of better terms, a mess. Chairs are overturned, the rooms haven’t been cleaned for almost two months, and broken glass covers the floor. A few priceless paintings are hanging crookedly, while others have been discarded carelessly. 

However, interestingly, the disarray is deliberate. 

Aside from the few obvious signs of struggle, it is immediately clear that the rest of the disarrangement had been done later. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as transparent to others as it is to Will. But then again, Will is almost certain that this is for him. 

He slowly makes his way to the library. Books are strewn across the floor, apparently tossed carelessly. But he knows, he _knows_ that the every book has been intentionally placed. One, in particular, catches his eye. 

The position implies that it had been hurled without care. However, Will knows that Hannibal would never treat anything he owns with such negligence. It would be disrespectful. 

The book is an old one, and it lies face down, open. It is at a slight angle, balanced by the floor and the leg of the chair. Will’s chair. 

He bends down carefully, his eyes raking over the meticulous positioning. Not a single page is bent. And yet, the book was apparently thrown carelessly. 

Amongst the other discarded books, Will knows that this would be overlooked. He takes a deep breath, and lightly picks it up. It’s a copy of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ ; a very rare, very old copy. One that Hannibal would treat with care, with love. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees Hannibal’s hands, gently placing the book on the floor. He can see him placing the book precariously, stroking the spine almost lovingly. 

Will opens the books, his eyes going over the words. Italian. He flips through the book carefully, his movements stopping abruptly at the last section: Paradiso. A piece of paper has been meticulously slipped between the pages. A drawing. _Hannibal’s_ drawing. The heavy, stifling silence is broken by a sharp intake of breath. 

Achilles and Patroclus. 

It’s for him.

The universe surely continues to move, but Will’s world comes to an abrupt stop. 

It’s for him. 

He hardly even remembers leaving Hannibal’s house with the book in his hand. He vaguely recalls stepping into his car and driving away. 

Where was Dante Alighieri born? Italy, of course, but where? His mind is working perhaps faster than it ever has before. He's flipping through hundreds of files, hundreds of books. He carelessly tosses aside the useless information, digging deeper and deeper into his mind, narrowing down the information. Divine Comedy. Literary history. Late middle ages.The 13th century. Italy. 

Florence. 

And he’s back to the present with a short gasp.

“I need to leave.” 

**

The preparation takes nearly a month. 

The very first thing he does when he reaches home is photocopy all the current files on the Chesapeake Ripper, including the newest one. His pack of dogs welcomes him warmly, and he briefly reacquaints himself with them. 

The arrangements are painstaking, but he knows his plan needs to be flawless. No one must know. 

It takes him longer than he wants to get everything in order. He finds himself an agent, and pays an ungodly amount of money to ensure he has a buyer for his property. Perhaps the most painful part is letting his dogs go. It’s one of the first things he does, when they aren’t used to having him around again. Winston is the last to go. 

Twenty-four hours before his flight, his house is empty. Almost everything has either been sold, or discarded. He signs the deal, ensures the money transfer has gone through, and drives to the BAU Office. 

“I’m leaving. I’m moving to Florida. I can’t do this anymore, Jack. I’ve sold my house, sorted out my belongings, and made sure that my dogs are in good homes.” Will slides his badge and a large stack of papers across the table. Unofficial copies of every single file on the Chesapeake Ripper that currently exists. “This is my official resignation from the FBI. I’ve already sent my papers to the headquarters. This is… This is goodbye.”

Jack puts up a fight. Will is certain that his booming voice is heard by everyone in the building. 

He tries everything. Everything from trying to reason with Will to playing at his heartstrings. Will doesn’t budge. He has made his decision. 

The argument ends with a promise. 

“You can leave now, Will. But I think we both know that you, of all people, are in the heart of this case. You have every reason in the world to hunt down Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” 

Will has every intention of hunting down Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps not for the same reasons as everyone else. 

And thus, twenty hours later, Will Graham boards his flight for Florence, Italy.


	2. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will's paths converge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Out of pride, we find it obligatory to point out that we decided on the entire relationship between Bedelia and Hannibal BEFORE the #BrideOfHannibal trailer was released.) ;-)

Hannibal has been reading Tattlecrime.com. Now that she is back from the dead, Ms Lounds—though distasteful in many ways—is, at least, relentless in her pursuit of news about the FBI’s tame empath, William Graham. LECTER’S LITTER OF VICTIMS, reads the headline.

He has seen photographs of Will in his hospital bed, and has learned that Will has been released to go home. He knows that Alana remains, undergoing intense physical therapy. He knows that Jack has been back to work for weeks.

He still likes Jack—still thinks of him when he pours a glass of Armagnac in the evenings—but he wishes he had killed him.

Abigail has been buried, quietly, next to her mother. 

This, he grieves. Not only Abigail herself, but his hopes for her. For the three of them.

He wonders if Will fully understands that he had no choice but to kill her: to end the brief extension of her life that Will had given her when he saved her from Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He wonders if Will has even considered forgiving him.

And then he stops the idle speculation: of course Will has not forgiven him. If he had, he would be here.

He puts the cover back on the iPad and finishes his espresso. He does not allow himself regrets. He is relatively safe, and he has plenty to occupy him. It is one of the advantages of wearing a person suit: he can reinvent himself at will.

However.... He checks his watch. The wedding ring on his finger glints. He’s still not used to it.

**

He meets Dr Bedelia DuMaurier in their favourite ristorante for dinner. She has already ordered the wine. He kisses her fragrant cheek, and sits across from her.

“How has your day been, Mrs Fell?” he asks her.

She sips her wine. She’s on her second glass. “Fine,” she says. “I went to the Chiostro dello Scalzo.”

“Again?” Hannibal affects to peruse the menu, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows what he will be ordering, and it is much more fruitful to surreptitiously examine Bedelia’s face.

Her cool beauty hides many things, but his keen eyes see her dissatisfaction. Her restlessness, and her fear. 

“I find the frescos soothing,” she says.

“Andrea del Sarto,” agrees Hannibal, and signals to the waiter. “I find his work soothing, as well.”

“Are you finished for the evening?” she asks him after they’ve ordered. “I have opera tickets.”

“Regretfully, I have another appointment. A book collector, who wants to show me a volume. I should be able to join you for the second act.”

Her lips purse. He knows that she’s not disappointed that he won’t be there, but rather that she will have to walk into the Teatro on her own. Like himself, she is acutely conscious of breaches of etiquette. 

And she understands him, better than anyone else except for one person. At one point, he thought their shared taste and her understanding might be enough.

“I’m not hungry,” she says, and stands. He touches her hand—the left one, the one that wears the wedding band that matches his.

_“But do not let us quarrel any more,_  
_No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once;_  
_Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.” ___

She is barely mollified by his quotation from one of her favourite poets, but it reminds her of how well he knows her: every little thing about her. Even the things—especially the things—that she wishes he did not know. 

She sits and drinks more wine. Hannibal pours himself a glass and savours the Brunello di Montalcino, wondering whether he will have to kill her. 

He does not want to. He likes her. She has been extremely useful to him as cover, a very pleasant companion, and she is intelligent and beautiful and careful. It would be like destroying a work of fine art. 

But he does not know how much longer she can keep up this artifice. The cracks are beginning to show in her perfect surface. They show now, in public; they are even beginning to show when the two of them are alone with each other.

He may have to kill her.

“I’ll hurry my appointment,” he tells her. “I will be there for the overture.”

He leans across the table and kisses her.

**  
Hannibal has made it almost distressingly easy for him. 

It takes him two days to track down every single intellectual specializing in Dante’s work. The clue about Dante and Florence had been more than enough, and before he knows it, Will has an appointment with the newest authority on Dante’s work in Florence. Namely, Dr. Fell. 

Will, currently, poses as a wealthy book collector seeking to sell a rare copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Adrian Grahe. He writes a profile for himself, for the man he is pretending to be. A short background and few characteristic traits is all it takes, and he almost effortlessly slips into a different mind. Suddenly, he stands straighter, his posture instantly radiating authority and grace. His face carries an expression of severity, his mouth straightening into a grim line. 

It is, perhaps, similar to wearing a second skin. 

Will, from under the nearly glacial exterior, tries to tell himself that the effortlessness comes from his years of experience in law enforcement. He fails. 

He walks to the Palazzo Capponi from his hotel, his strides long and confident; they belong to Mr. Grahe. 

The fact that his second skin belongs to such a controlled man is, perhaps, the only thing that prevents Will from gracelessly tripping over his own feet when he sees them through the long restaurant window. 

The skin cracks at the edges. His strides falter, and he feels the ice melting. 

He forces himself to look away, and continues to walk. 

Through the window, Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier sit at a white-clothed table. They raise their wine glasses, full of ruby liquid, to each other.

The image is imprinted in his mind. He feels the water flowing now, the glacial exterior melting faster. Hannibal was holding her hand, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek, smiling at her. Pain twists at his heart, and his chest tightens. The lingering presence of the controlled man prevents him from giving in to his agony. 

No. No.

He needs to control himself. Interrupting them right now would be rude. He hears a voice whispering next to him. _Very rude_. Will shakes himself. He waited for months; he can wait for another hour. He nearly laughs at himself. He left his life behind to go after Hannibal; he left his friends, his house, his dogs. 

All for him. 

And the man’s approval has enough of a hold on him that he hesitates to interrupt him for the fear of being rude. 

His law enforcement training is screaming at him now. Meeting him in his office would put the power in Hannibal’s favor. It’s better, much better to meet him in a public setting. But it would be rude to interrupt his dinner. 

Will stands before the Palazzo Capponi, taking a minute to compose himself. The melting exterior freezes, and in his mind’s eye, he sees himself making a sculpture. He places more ice, fixing the melting edges, perfecting every detail. He lets himself sink into the water, the thick ice locking him inside. 

He opens his eyes, and his tense shoulders relax. The grace and authority return to his posture and he briskly walks inside. The woman at the desk stands up as he walks in, smiling politely. 

“I have an appointment with Dr. Fell.” 

He almost doesn’t recognize his voice. The woman swallows and nods. She leads him to a waiting room, politely informing him that she will come get him when Dr. Fell returns from dinner. 

Will feels a sudden rush of panic, beating his fists almost wildly against the ice blocking him. He needs to leave. The exterior doesn’t budge, and his face doesn’t even twitch. This reaction is precisely the reason why the exterior is so thick; precisely the reason why he chose Mr. Grahe as his second skin. A calm, controlled, decisive man.

He waits for twenty minutes. Each minute seems to drag on. He buries the image of Hannibal and Bedelia: his soft smile, the gentle kiss. 

In his mind, Will screams in frustration. 

He _kissed_ her? He kissed _her_? 

Thoughts are racing through his mind, crowding against each other. He’s kept himself busy for the past few weeks, not giving himself time to think. 

But now, merely minutes before he sees him again, Will can’t stop the nearly painful rush of thoughts. He feels a steady pressure building up inside up.

His exterior remains calm. 

Footsteps echo through the corridor, and he looks up.

“Dr. Fell is ready to see you. You needn’t knock. He is expecting you, so you may enter.” 

She leads him to a door, wishes him a good evening, and makes her way back to her desk at the main entrance. Will pounds against the ice, wanting to take control and leave. Terror permeates his mind, and he wonders why he ever thought it would be a good idea to do this. 

His heart rate remains steady.

Will opens the door, walking inside calmly. 

His eyes rake over the tasteful suit, the long fingers, his sharp cheekbones, his stoic demeanor. Fingers that once lovingly cupped his face. Fingers that once ruthlessly held the knife that nearly ended his life. His hands, capable of both saving and killing. His lips, capable of both great kindness and great cruelty. His eyes, the color of drying blood. 

Hannibal. 

Will’s glacial exterior remains in place for six seconds. 

Mr. Grahe melts away with a deafening splash. 

*

Hannibal knows who his visitor is before the man has even opened the door. 

The sound of his gait is different—he is wearing different shoes, better shoes, than usual. He is walking more stiffly. But the scent is unmistakable. 

Mr Grahe. It is not a subtle alias.

He stands and slips his scalpel into his pocket. Then he opens the top drawer of his desk and closes his fingers around the sharpened letter opener within. 

His hand is unsteady. Half an hour ago he was savouring his wine, contemplating killing Bedelia with the utmost equanimity. But he would prefer not to stab Will again. Last time it nearly killed him.

The doorknob twists and the door slowly opens.

Will Graham walks in. He is wearing an Italian suit, cut to perfection to his slender body. A snow-white shirt, grey damask tie. A paisley silk pocket square.

_A paisley silk pocket square._

His hair is combed back and he has grown a beard—a proper beard, a trimmed and groomed beard, not the nightstag scruff he sported in America. He has lost weight. He looks…

Calm. Controlled. His blue eyes cool.

Like a marble-carved angel.

The sight of him hits Hannibal like a punch. Both pain and pleasure, mixed. He catches his breath and has to force himself to keep his stance, not stagger backwards. 

“Hello, Will,” he says.


	3. Regrets and Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sharp pain from the past still lingers. And yet, despite the pain, the motivations for the future are stronger than the past.

“Hello, Will,” he says.

His calm, accented voice. The voice Will didn’t hear when he was lying in bed, unable to move. His voice, though unsteady, doesn’t break.

“Dr. Fell.”

Hannibal inclines his head. Unusually for him, his heart is racing. “You found the book I left for you. I wondered when you would.”

“I found it… around a month ago.”

So many things to say, and they’re talking about the _book_. Nonetheless, Will pulls out his briefcase. He does it slowly, making it clear that he has no ill intentions. Gently, he pulls out Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ and places it on the table. Hannibal picks it up with his left hand and regards it as an old friend.

His right hand is still in the drawer.

“And the drawing?”

Will tries, he really does, to build his exterior again. He fails. His heart is beating loudly, his chest tightening. Will’s breath stutters. “It is inside.”

“You didn’t pass it on to the FBI, then.”

“I had no obligation to pass it on to the FBI. I quit my job.”

Hannibal’s fingers relax infinitesimally on the letter opener. “So you’re not here to arrest me?”

“I am, currently, in Florida. I am not affiliated with the FBI, or any American or international law enforcement agency. I am building a new life for myself to heal after trauma, by cutting off all contact with anyone or anything that could possibly trigger a negative response to my mental health and well being.” He speaks almost mechanically, reciting his official reasons for his resignation from the FBI.

“That...evidently does not include the person who stabbed you?”

“Evidently, I am also very unstable right now.”

“You don’t look unstable to me.” Hannibal’s voice is soft. “I’m very glad to see you, Will.”

“You, unfortunately, are still the person who stabbed me.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Hannibal has not yet come out from behind his desk. “How are you healing?”

“Fine. May I sit?”

“Of course.” Hannibal gestures to a pair of armchairs, facing each other. They’re wing-backs, upholstered in green leather with brass buttons; much more old-fashioned than the modern chairs he had in his office in Baltimore. But the position is the same.

As if a curator of old books and letters would need a setting suited to therapy.

Will’s posture is stiff. He sits straight, almost too straight. Anything else and the pressure to the wound would give away his pain. These days it only hurts when he is tired or has over-exerted himself, but he knows Hannibal would catch the slightest discomfort.

“May I ask,” Hannibal says, pleasantly, “have you brought a gun with you? I’d like to know whether I’m about to be shot.”

“To legally own a gun in Italy, I would require a nulla osta all'acquisto di arma. Even then, I wouldn’t be authorized to carry or use it. I am, after all, not an FBI agent anymore. ”

“That’s not what I asked, Will.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I think we both know I wouldn’t use a gun.”

Hannibal smiles. He places the letter opener back in the drawer, and closes it. Then he comes round the desk and sits in the armchair facing Will.

“So,” he says. “Here we are again.”

Weeks of planning, hours and hours of work, and Will doesn’t know what to say. He merely nods. The only difference between now and their therapy sessions is that today, he doesn’t avert his eyes. His eyes rake over Hannibal’s face, and he meets his maroon eyes. The same color that stained his shirt after he was stabbed. 

They call Will extraordinary. He calls himself a fool, sitting here just a few feet away from a serial killer.

“I am sorry,” Hannibal says, quietly. “I did not want to stab you. It was very much a last resort.”

“You’re not sorry for stabbing me. You’re sorry because the situation got too out of your control.”

“It was always in my control. But I wish it could have ended without you being hurt. I had hoped...that you would be the one with me here in Italy.”

Hannibal thinks he is perhaps being too honest, too soon. Will Graham has been in his office for less than ten minutes. And in this situation, Hannibal is used to being the one extracting the information, not giving it.

But he is...happy. Purely happy to see Will. It makes him reckless.

He would have been happy, he realises, even if Will had pulled a gun and pointed it at his head.

Will nods. But the image of Bedelia and Hannibal resurfaces in his mind at the unintentional reminder. He feels the knife twisting in his gut again, and forces himself to not move, to not place his hand on his stomach, on the scar that Hannibal gave him.

Abigail’s face haunts him. And yet, he can’t muster any hatred for Hannibal. Only pain, and regret. The realization leaves him feeling hollow. He averts his eyes.

“Why did you come?” Hannibal asks. “It is a long way to come for mere recrimination. You once spoke of a reckoning. Is this it? Or is this something else?”

Will looks down, swallowing.

“I… I don’t know.”

It suddenly hits him, and for the first time in weeks, he feels lost.

When he woke up, he knew what he wanted to do, what he _needed_ to do. The sheer desperation had won out, and he never bothered to examine his reasons for feeling so utterly desperate. Why is he here? He sold his property, resigned from a stable job and income, left everyone he knew, and gave away his dogs. Why? For what?

He finds one reason for his actions; a ridiculous reason. Not a reason for anyone to leave their entire life for. He’s speaking before he even knows what he is saying. At the moment, it is the only motive for his actions he can possibly find.

“For a long time, I couldn’t move, but I could hear. I heard many voices; doctors, nurses, old acquaintances and colleagues, people from the FBI. I didn’t hear your voice. I needed to hear your voice.”

“You’re hearing it now,” says Hannibal. “How does it make you feel, Will?”

Will wants to say many things. Words that would mean too much, words that he can’t say. Saying anything at all would be dishonoring Abigail’s death.

“I had hoped I would feel anger. Perhaps even hatred. But I feel... “ Will swallows. “Less alone.”

“I have missed you too.” Hannibal looks straight at Will. Straight into his face, gaze steady, willing him to look up and return it.

At the words, Will looks up at Hannibal. He doesn’t say anything. The slight quickening of his heart rate comes with more guilt.

“We saved her together, from her father,” Hannibal says, seemingly able to read his mind. “And we killed her together, by making the wrong decisions. We can make up for that, Will. We can make the right decisions this time.”

“She’s dead, Hannibal. I couldn’t even go to her funeral, didn’t even visit her grave. Tell me, what is there to make up now? She’s gone.”

“Not from our hearts. And you and I are still alive.”

“She had faith in us. She trusted us. We broke that trust; how could anyone even begin to make up for that?” His voice is unsteady. For the first time since he woke up, his hands are shaking, giving away his anguish and rage.

Hannibal does what he has never done before. He rises from his chair and goes to Will. He kneels before him on the floor, like a supplicant, and takes both of Will’s hands in his own.

His palms are warm and dry, his fingers strong. They lend steadiness to Will’s hands.

“The teacup has shattered,’ Hannibal says. ‘We cannot put it back together. Abigail is gone. But we can mourn her, and go back to what was meant to happen. We can, at least, set that right.”

Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes. The same color as Abigail’s blood. His voice is soft, barely a whisper. “And how would we do that?”

“Back in Baltimore, I asked you to go away with me. I told you we could leave everything behind and escape. Do you remember?”

Will thinks of the words, the words that haunted him. The words that he heard in his ears when the pain threatened to consume him. When he gave away his dogs. When he realized that Hannibal Lecter was, perhaps, the only person in the world to want him for his instability.

In the end, one book and a drawing was all it took for him to leave everything behind.

“How could I not remember?” he says.

“If we had—if you had said yes—Jack would not have been wounded. Alana would be able to walk. You would be unscarred. And Abigail would be alive.” His voice drops, becomes lower, more intimate. “We could do that now. We could escape together.”

Will can say many things. He can talk about how Hannibal is deliberately using his guilt against him. He can ask him why he gave him the clue in the book, taught Will where to find him. And yet, the first words out of his mouth surprise him.

“And what about Dr. DuMaurier?” A hollow laugh nearly escapes his lips at the absurdity of the situation.

“I’m meant to be at the opera with her right now. She won’t be pleased with me.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Are you jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous?” Will is lying. “You were never anything but my friend and psychiatrist.”

“And she was mine.” Hannibal pauses. “She will be relieved to see me go, I think. If you say yes. She finds this existence to be a little bit too… precarious.”

“People don’t kiss their ‘friend and psychiatrist’, Dr. Lecter. She came with you willingly. That must mean something.”

“You came here willingly.”

“You implied that she’s having doubts. What makes you think I won’t?”

“I think you should. I am very dangerous. And you could lose everything.”

“I have already lost everything.”

"Then perhaps…”

Hannibal does it quite deliberately. He lifts Will’s hand, his left one, and turns it over in his, palm-up. He glances into Will’s eyes, and then he presses his warm lips to the centre of his palm.

A sharp intake of breath breaks the silence of the room. Will’s heart beats faster. He hates himself, for coming here. For wanting this.

And yet, he doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal continues, “you and I both have nothing to lose. And much to gain.”

“I don’t believe we can merely put everything behind us. I...” His voice trails off. But he is just as guilty as Hannibal is. For Jack’s injuries, for Alana’s fate, for Abigail’s death.

His name is Will Graham. He is in Florence, Italy, with Dr Hannibal Lecter. _Florence, Italy_.  

He came here, because no one else understands. He has been lonely; alone because he is different. Not for the first time in the past few weeks, Will ponders upon the irony of his “gift”. His ability has always been the reason why they all wanted him. It has also always been the reason why none of them do.

Except Hannibal.

He doesn’t believe Hannibal would kill him if Will were to refuse his offer. But does he believe that if Will refuses, Hannibal would continue this life with Dr Du Maurier?

The image flashes in his eyes. The wine glass, full of ruby liquid. The soft smile, the gentle kiss.

Yes. He can believe that Hannibal would continue his life with her. Bedelia Du Maurier is calm and collected; controlled. A refined woman of great tastes, graceful and strong. Her eyes shine with intellect, and her beauty is unparalleled.

She is, perhaps, everything that Will is not.

He imagines them going the opera together, her arm tucked into his elbow. He sees them sharing a glass of wine after dinner, Hannibal’s lips curving into a smile. She kisses him gently, her hand on his cheek; his hands are on her waist, as he whispers softly in her ear. He sees them at the dinner table, debating upon works of literature, about science, about arts. He sees them sharing a life together.

Will doesn’t expect the sharp stab of anguish accompanying his thoughts. The wall of ice he built inside himself is long gone, replaced by blistering heat. His rage burns. His thoughts are cluttered, and a steady pressure builds inside him.

The pain, however, runs deeper and darker than his rage. A strange feeling of hollowness spreads across his body. The image flashes in his eyes again. And suddenly, he can see her beautiful face, twisted in terror. He sees her hair, stained with blood; the same color as Hannibal’s eyes. Her mouth is open in a silent scream.

Will gazes at Hannibal. He’s almost certain that the man knows what he’s thinking.

**

Hannibal holds Will’s hands in his. He is full of Will’s scent. His lips have touched Will’s skin. His body thrums with the sensation.

He has...thought about this moment for quite some time.

And yet unlike him, Will is not caught up in the present. His eyes have gone vacant, speculative. There is a frown between his eyebrows. He is seeing something other than the scene before him.

Hannibal has witnessed Will doing this before. He has gone into his own mind; he is seeing one of his visions, one of the things that make him extraordinary. A tangle of imagination, instinct, and intelligence.

It hurts Will, whatever he is seeing. It makes him angry. His emotions have always been so close to the surface, even when he thought he was hiding them. It is part of what makes him so fascinating: the fleeting happinesses, the hot rages, the lost desperation. Will Graham wears emotion beautifully. He _radiates_ emotion, so powerfully that it has a taste of its own.

Will is trying to come to a decision, in the best way he knows how: by feeling for it. Hannibal knows that the course of both of their lives will be altered by what Will decides. The course of Bedelia Du Maurier’s life, as well, although Will does not know it.

Hannibal holds Will’s hands and watches him. He wants Will to say yes. He could, if he wished, use his knowledge of Will to manipulate him into saying it. And yet he wants Will to choose, freely, to come with him.

He does not know how Will is going to reply.

He does, however, see the exact moment when Will’s emotions turn from anguish and guilt, to a dark, familiar pleasure.

**

Looking into Hannibal’s eyes, Will wonders what would happen if he were to refuse Hannibal’s offer, and leave. He wonders if he can wake up every morning with the hollow pain and poisonous anger. How long will it take before the beauty of the world is lost to him? How long will it take before the crippling loneliness ends his life?

Can he wake up every morning, knowing that somewhere in the world, Dr Hannibal Lecter and Dr Bedelia Du Maurier are together, happy?

He swallows, and he sees her again, covered in her own blood, her eyes lifeless. His hands are wrapped around her throat, and she struggles weakly underneath him. Her enchanting eyes, full of intellect, lose their light. A few moments later, he holds her heart in his hand, blood dripping down his arms.

Will can’t deny the twinge of pleasure the image gives him. Malicious laughter echoes in his mind. Even if he does find someone to care for him despite his “gift”, he will certainly never find someone who will accept his darker thoughts and pleasures.

Will’s weaknesses are a burden to the world. But to Hannibal, his weaknesses are perfection.

He knows why he came here.  He wouldn’t throw away his life so carelessly, wouldn’t travel across the globe with nothing but a few belongings, if he didn’t feel _something_.

He thinks of Hannibal, kissing Bedelia. The words _flow_. His answer.

“... I don’t believe we can merely put everything behind us. But… we can try.”

Hannibal’s hands tighten on his.

“You will escape with me?” he asked. “Now? Tonight?”

“Yes,” Will says. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Running away


	4. So Free We Seem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has agreed to escape with Hannibal...but he is still not entirely sure why.

Will’s response shakes Hannibal. Unsteadies him in a way he was not expecting. It’s natural, however: this is the culmination of his hopes and plans for Will. The way he carefully, meticulously cultivated the other man to become his perfect companion. For over two years, he has arranged events and outcomes so that Will Graham could more fully see his point of view.

It’s only natural that he should feel...something... _profound_ , at this acquiescence.

He masks his emotion with a calm expression, lets go of Will’s hands, and stands. 

“I am glad,” he says, though his voice is colder than he might wish. “Meet me at Santa Maria Novella station in an hour. I have one or two things to take care of.”

**

Hannibal lets himself into the apartment he shares with Bedelia Du Maurier. He pauses just inside the door. Her perfume is in the air, but it has faded; she is at the opera, then, waiting for him. 

In the study, he takes out a sheet of heavy writing paper, sits at the desk and writes:

 

_My dear Bedelia,_

_I hope you enjoyed La Bohème, and I apologise for the empty seat beside you._

_We know each other so well, you and I. So it possibly will not be a surprise to you that I am leaving Florence. We have both known that our time together, though pleasurable and necessary, was limited; and this is, perhaps, a happier result than either of us anticipated._

_I shall keep your secrets, as long as you keep mine; and I shall not look for you, as long as you do not look for me._

_“Love, we are in God’s hand._  
_How strange now, looks the life He makes us lead;_  
_So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!”_

_Believe me to be very sincerely yours, my Lucrezia,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

 

He folds the note and takes it to their bedroom. The scent of Bedelia is stronger here. He closes his eyes and sees her, sitting at the dressing table, dabbing perfume behind her ears. He sees himself, placing his hand on her bare shoulder. Helping her fasten the clasp of her necklace. The soft sheen of gold against her fair skin.

Then he places the folded note on her pillow, without regret.

He has bags packed, ready to go; he always does, wherever he is. It is a necessary condition of the life he has chosen: a reminder that a state of calm is never permanent. He adds certain items to his suitcase, and without a backwards glance, he leaves his life of the past few months behind.

***

It doesn’t take Will long to get to reach the Santa Maria Novella station. 

He merely walks back to his hotel, picks up his bags, and leaves. He would like to say that he feels like he’s floating. But rather, his mind is sharp, and he sees the world with clarity. He doesn’t even try to deny his fear, given away by the erratic beating of his heart, his trembling hands.

However, at the moment, all he wants to do is forget. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, running away with his psychiatrist. 

Nonetheless, being on the run with Hannibal Lecter isn’t what scares him.

What scares Will is the satisfaction he feels. Satisfaction at the fact that merely an hour after Will’s reappearance, Hannibal is leaving _her_ for _him_. He doesn’t understand what it means. He doesn’t know what to make of the fact that he all but admitted to himself that he couldn’t wake up every morning knowing that somewhere in the world, she would be with him. His decision was impulsive, dictated by his emotions. 

Bedelia Du Maurier is an exquisite woman; she has earned his respect by her courage, her intelligence, her beauty. And yet, he has a bitter taste in his mouth. Will has never been one to mindlessly dislike an individual without reason, and Dr. Du Maurier has given him absolutely no reason to dislike her. 

Will doesn’t regret his decision. But he doesn’t like his reasons behind accepting Hannibal’s offer. Over the past month, he has been nothing but rash, impulsive, emotional. 

Will walks inside briskly, his steps measured, his posture tense. The interior is grand, with a magnificent metal and glass roof. It must have been later than he thought, because the station isn’t bustling with activity. Will’s eyes rake over the entrance, looking for irregularities. He looks down at his watch; he’s fifteen minutes early. With a deep sigh, he places his bags on the ground and sits down heavily on a bench inside the station. His hands are shaking again. His body is hunched down, his face buried in his trembling hands. 

Will is almost absolutely certain that he is safe with Hannibal. But their path is unpredictable, dangerous. Right now is possibly the worst moment for him to be so unsure of himself. Every conversation with Hannibal Lecter is a dangerous game of chess. He catches every unintentional implication, every little twitch, every miniscule change in expression. Will thinks back to the moment he entered the Ripper’s mind, shivering as he once again feels the bitingly cold draft. 

_Every movement is calculated, every step, every action, every word is deliberate._

_A vast ocean, wild and yet controlled._

Hannibal Lecter is made of impenetrable steel. It’s nearly impossible to know what he is thinking; and yet, for the Ripper, the world is an open book. For Will, it is almost refreshing to be able to look into Hannibal’s eyes without unintentionally falling into his mind. However, as refreshing as it is, it makes his future completely unpredictable. 

He takes a deep breath, and nearly flinches as he feels another body sliding onto the other side of the bench. The smell of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne permeates the air.

“Stai bene?”

Will looks up. A tall, lean man sits next to him, his warm brown eyes regarding him curiously. His hair is black, his lips curved into a permanent smile. He leans back in his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, loosening his tie. 

“I beg your pardon?” Will’s voice is hesitant, unsure. And yet, his body immediately tenses. The man doesn’t look like a federal agent; but then again, neither does Will. 

The man raises his eyebrows, amused. 

“Are you alright?” His accented voice is smooth and deep. 

Will sits straighter, wondering why the man would even bother speaking to him. Nonetheless, his remains polite, “I’m very well, thank you for asking.” 

“You… don’t seem well. Are you waiting for someone?” The man tilts his head slowly to the side.

“Yes, I am.”

He waves his hand lazily over the entrance, “Clearly, they are not here yet. Would you… like to grab a coffee?” He holds out his hand, “My name is Arturo. Yours?”

Is he flirting with him? The man is _flirting_ with him. 

Will shakes the man’s hand. His grip is strong, firm. “William.” 

“William. _William_.” His name rolls off the man’s lips, “I like it.”

It’s innocent enough, and yet, the way the man says his name… Will wonders if Hannibal ever said Bedelia’s name like that. He swallows, trying to imagine his name coming out of Hannibal’s mouth in the same sensual tone. He can hear Hannibal’s voice in his head, and he suddenly reddens. The man’s smile widens. 

Will nearly shakes himself, “It’s late. I don’t think there’s any place where we could get a decent cup of coffee.” 

He’s shifting awkwardly, gazing at the door. The man—Arturo, he reminds himself—casually reaches over and stretches his arm across the bench.

“My place isn’t too far from here. I make very good coffee. I have also been told that I’m not a bad cook.” His eyes are shining mischievously as they travel across his frame, “My bed is also very comfortable, and you look… tired.”

Hannibal also makes very good coffee. He also happens to be a brilliant cook And he has also, on many different occasions, invited him over for dinner and coffee. His eyes widen, and he swallows as he thinks of _Hannibal_ saying the very same things. Will’s blushes deeply, and he’s certain he’s redder than the horrid tomato soup served on the plane.

Arturo’s eyes are fixed on him intently, an amused smile on his face as Will fidgets. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say; he has never experienced such blatant flirting. 

“Can you give me a smile, William? Something tells me you have a lovely smile.”

“He does.” 

Hannibal stands behind them, holding a leather suitcase. His voice is cordial, and pleasant. But there is a glint in his eye that Will thinks he recognises.

It makes him blush even harder.

Hannibal’s gaze travels from Will’s face, to Arturo’s. “I hope I am not interrupting anything,” he says.

Will has never wanted the ground to swallow him as much as now. Spontaneous combustion would also be welcome. He can barely meet Hannibal’s eyes, “N-no, I was just talking to… Arturo.” He wonders where his confidence went. 

“Ah,” says Arturo. “I see. I did not know you were waiting for your boyfriend. Mi dispiace molto, signore.” The man stands, winks at Will, and walks away, hands in pockets, whistling.

It takes Will a lot of self restraint not to gape. He looks at Hannibal, clearing his throat.

“Was he bothering you?” Hannibal asks, watching Arturo go. “You seem uncomfortable.”

There is an awkward silence. Will stares at Hannibal, and forces himself to not look away. He blushes harder, Arturo’s voice being replaced by Hannibal’s in his head. 

“William?” says Hannibal.

Will’s voice is strangled, “Yes, Hannibal?” 

“Where would you like to go?”

_My bed is also very comfortable._

Will looks at the screen on the wall in front of him, reading over the various destinations. He’s speaking before he even has time to think, “Paris.” Paris. Paris? Oh God. He averts his eyes, not wanting to look at Hannibal. 

“Good choice. Paris it is. I shall buy the tickets.” He tilts his head at Will, amused. “If you don’t mind being left alone to look after the bags? You may not remain alone for long, if Arturo is anything to go by.”

Will tries to tell himself that he’s a former FBI agent. He has killed people, has been called dangerous. However, with his inability to maintain a blank face, he wonders if he remembers any of his training at all. He meets Hannibal’s eyes for a moment, and reddens; “I don’t mind.” 

Hannibal walks off, upright, impeccable, and Will can’t help following him with his eyes. At the ticket booth, he converses in fluent Italian, and the man at the adjoining desk glances at him appreciatively. 

_Waiting for your boyfriend._

Is this really so evident to everyone but him?

Is it evident to Hannibal?

Hannibal returns with the tickets. “We haven’t long; the train leaves in ten minutes. It’s a sleeper.” He picks up his bags and begins to stride down the concourse toward the platform.

Will also picks up his bags and hurries after Hannibal, wondering if his empathy is any good at all if he remains to be this clueless about human interaction. _Waiting for your boyfriend._

**

The train compartment is small. There’s no other word for it: There is a sofa, a small shelf, just enough room for their luggage and for them. It’s a private compartment, with a door and a narrow corridor between them and the rest of the people on the train. Hannibal rapidly checks over the entire compartment and places one of his smaller bags on the shelf. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

Will places his suitcase under the shelf and sits down, “I ate breakfast.”

“You’re still not looking after yourself. I brought a picnic.”

Hannibal unpacks cheese, fruit, salami, prosciutto, olives. A bottle of artichokes preserved in fragrant oil. Fresh tomatoes, still on the vine. He uncorks a bottle of wine and pours them each a glass, and then he sits beside Will.

“To our escape,” he says, and holds up his glass for a toast.

Will can’t help the slight twitch of his lips. Some things never do change. In a way, it’s very comforting. He raises his glass, “To our escape”, and takes a small sip. _To the future. To not being alone. To forgiveness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: In Which We See Whether Nine Hours In A Very Small Compartment With Hannibal Lecter Has Served To Demolish Will's State Of Denial


	5. Top or Bottom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This train compartment is really rather small, isn't it?

Will is aware of Hannibal's every movement, every twitch, every breath. His skin is radiating heat, almost burning him. He shifts, and his leg brushes against Hannibal’s. Will mumbles an apology and turns his head, focusing his attention on the scenery, gradually darkening into night. They’ve been on the train for an hour. The words echo in his mind, and he feels his cheeks getting warmer. _Waiting for your boyfriend._

A fire burns inside him. It doesn’t scorch him, doesn’t hurt him. But it agitates him, filling him with unresolved tension and nervous energy. He’s frustrated, and unable to identify the source of his own frustration. 

He clenches his fists tightly, his nails leaving indents on his skin. Hannibal used to be his psychiatrist. He has always considered him a friend. However, he wonders if he can call their relationship a “friendship”. The dynamic between them is far too complex, too deep, for them to be “friends”. He shifts uncomfortably at the word “boyfriend”. It’s too juvenile a term, unfitting for the man sitting next to him, and unfitting of their relationship, which is not of a romantic nature. Will fidgets again, his mind working fast. 

His companion? Partner? The words are too intimate, and at the same time, not intimate enough. 

Friendship is a strange concept.

From a perspective of evolutionary psychology, it is even odder. The urge to form a non-sexual relationship based on mutual cooperation and exchange of resources. Will isn’t certain if he and Hannibal even meet the bare minimum requirements of a healthy friendship. 

Friends. Will has had better “friends” than Hannibal. And yet, he felt an uncontrollable _desperation_ to find him, to go to him. He wonders if he would do the same for Alana; if he would leave his dogs, his life, leave _everything_ for her. He wonders if Hannibal would do the same for Dr. Du Maurier. 

Bedelia Du Maurier. 

Will feels a flare of unease as he thinks of her. Calm, composed, intelligent, beautiful Bedelia Du Maurier. Perhaps Hannibal didn’t leave everything for her, but he did leave with her as a companion. As those endless days in the hospital passed by, Hannibal and Bedelia had been building their life together. Until a few hours ago, perhaps Hannibal would even claim that they had a romantic relationship. She understands him. Will tells himself that what he feels isn’t pain. It isn’t jealousy. 

The fire burns hotter. 

He shifts in his seat.

Next to him, Hannibal Lecter reads his book, perfectly poised and composed. He finishes the last of his glass of wine, savouring the final drops, and looks over at Will.

“Perhaps we should get some sleep,” he says.

Will nearly jumps as Hannibal’s voice breaks the silence of the compartment. Sleep is the last thing on his mind right now. He isn’t tired, and if he didn’t have an ironclad control over himself, he would be trembling with nervous energy. He’s hyperaware of every sound, every twitch. Nonetheless, Will nods. He doesn’t look at Hannibal. 

Hannibal stands and motions for Will to do the same. He unfolds a cot from the wall to make a top bunk, and opens out the seat to make a bottom one. 

“Top or bottom?” he asks.

Will instantly reddens, gaping at Hannibal. His mouth closes with a snap, and he averts his eyes, reprimanding himself. Hannibal has given him no reason to believe that the question has an underlying meaning. And yet, no words come out of his mouth. He wants to be polite and give Hannibal the bottom bed. Will _knows_ this isn’t a question about his preferences. Hannibal would _never_ flirt so blatantly; he wouldn’t flirt at _all_ , at least with Will. 

“I wouldn’t mind either.” He flushes all the way down to his neck. 

“We can flip a coin,” says Hannibal, not perturbed in the slightest. He takes down one of his bags from the rack where he’s stored it and takes out striped pyjama bottoms and a red V-neck pullover. He loosens his tie, and pulls it off, hanging it carefully from a hook. He begins to unbutton his shirt.

Will turns around, swiftly loosening his own tie. He takes out a plain white t-shirt, and quickly undresses.

Hannibal undresses, his back to Will. He can hear every move that the other man makes. He can practically hear Will’s heartbeat. Will’s breathing is quick; his movements are jerky and uncertain. It’s fear, but not the type that Hannibal is used to.

“I like your suit very much,” he says, facing away from Will, testing.

“Thank you. I was posing as a wealthy book collector, and I needed to dress the part for anyone to believe me.”

“Ah. Then you bought it for me. I thank you.”

Changed, he hangs up his clothing, preserving the creases, and finds his washing bag in his suitcase. 

Will pauses, his voice strained, masking his irritation at the assumption, “I bought it to fit my profile.” 

“Of course. That’s what I meant.” He washes his face, carefully in the small sink, with the soap he has bought at the Officina Profumo Farmaceutica. It fills the small compartment with the aroma of sandalwood and cedar. “Would you like to try?” he asks Will, holding it out to him, looking at him for the first time. Will wears a white t-shirt and plaid boxer shorts. Out of the suit, he looks more the Will Graham that Hannibal is used to: less polished, and somehow less vulnerable, too. The strength in his arms and thighs is evident. 

Although he has lost weight. In hospital, and probably since. He hasn’t been eating properly.

Hannibal wonders what Will’s scar looks like, under his t-shirt, and he feels a pang, not unmixed with desire.

Will turns to look at Hannibal, eyeing the offered soap. He doesn’t particularly care, but he takes the soap, quietly thanking him. After all, refusing the polite offer would be rude. 

“I think the scent would suit you,” says Hannibal, turning to put toothpaste on his toothbrush. “You seem, to me, to have an affinity with the forest.”

He doesn’t say that he thought of Will when he bought it. That he closed his eyes amongst the hundreds of perfumes in the Farmaceutica and breathed in sandalwood and cedar and pictured Will Graham, knee-deep in a stream.

“I have always felt drawn to the forest, to nature,” says Will. Traveling with his father had left him with a connection to the natural world. The fresh smell of grass, of water, of the earth has always grounded him. He unknowingly relaxes, his tense muscles loosening. 

“It does suit you,” says Hannibal, breathing in the scent of the soap, mixed with Will’s skin. In the small compartment, it is quite dizzying. “You shall have to keep it.” 

He bends over the sink, close to Will, and begins to brush his teeth. 

Will opens his mouth to argue, but Hannibal seems adamant. He sighs, nodding jerkily, and takes out his own toothbrush. 

It is intimate, Hannibal muses, to do this together. This mundane thing, a ritual at the end of every day. It is something entirely non-sexual yet something only shared with selected others: the dismantling of the public self, the putting away of clothes, cleaning the body, loosening one’s identity in preparation for sleep. And sleep itself is vulnerable, a trusting.

He spits, carefully, in the small sink and watches Will do the same. 

He takes a coin from the few in the pocket of his trousers. Half a Euro. “Heads or tails?” he asks. “Which do you prefer?”

He knows the innuendo behind this question, too. It’s too delicious to resist.

“Tails.” 

He flips. “Heads. I’ll choose, then. I’ll take the top.”

Hannibal makes this choice not because of Will’s embarrassment at the euphemism—or at least, not entirely. He knows that in the bottom bunk, it will be harder for Will to ignore his presence.

He will not put any pressure on Will. He will allow Will to make his own, free, decisions. 

But he is not above using every advantage he can get.

Will swallows, and nods. The doctor is nonchalant, detached. He wonders if he’s the only one perhaps taking the situation out of context. 

“Goodnight, Will,” says Hannibal. The train is speeding through the night, and he rocks slightly. Then he climbs swiftly up into the top bunk. Will can hear him lying down, settling into a comfortable pose.

“Sleep well,” he says. And he reaches over and turns out the light.

Will puts a hand on his stomach, over the scar. He sees, with extreme clarity, how the path of his life has been destroyed and rebuilt in the past few hours. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the path of his life, the road from his birth to his death, still exists, somewhere. However, Will has broken down the towering walls separating his narrow path from the vast land of possibilities. He sees himself, in his mind’s eye, knocking down the wall and leaping over the debris. Debris made of dreams long forgotten, a future no longer possible. 

His mind wanders back to the Ripper’s design. 

_A vast ocean, wild and yet controlled._

_He is aware of his every action, aware of the social constructs of right and wrong, and yet he chooses to pave his own path. Boundaries aren’t significant enough to even be mere annoyances._

_If the path strays, it can be manipulated. If the road breaks, he effortlessly leaps over it._

Will’s eyes close. 

He dreams of narrow, stifling pathways. 

He dreams of desperation; desperation to see beyond the walls, and relief as the walls crumble. 

He dreams of Hannibal, his shadow approaching Will as the dust in the air separates around him. He is light on his feet, barely touching the ground. With the walls now broken, Will hesitantly takes Hannibal’s hand and leaps over the debris, leaving the safety and predictability of his path. The land around him is full of possibilities. It’s dangerous, unpredictable. And yet, as he turns his head towards the comforting sound of waves, towards the ocean— _the vast ocean, wild and yet controlled_ —Will doesn’t hesitate. 

For the first time since that night, Will sleeps well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Monsters in Paris


	6. Black and Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Paris, Will and Hannibal find everything is strangely...normal. Until Hannibal makes a mistake.

Even if Hannibal had his eyes shut, even if he could not hear the voices of the people in the station as he walks through it beside Will, he would know he was in Paris and not Florence. The scent is entirely different: people, yes, cigarette smoke, concrete, the lingering odour of urine—but there are plane trees, a crêperie, paper narcissus, burnt sugar—even here, in the Gare de Lyon, a whiff of the dark-brown slow-flowing Seine. 

Whenever he visits, the scent reminds him forcibly of his time living here. Lady Murasaki’s silk and orchids and oil of clove. His uncle’s cologne. Formaldehyde and the scent of the dissecting rooms. That policeman’s hair tonic.

He glances over at Will. He slept well in the bottom bunk—Hannibal listened to his steady breathing for a long time before he allowed himself to drop off to sleep—but he still looks tired. Evidently he has had too many poor nights, and the six or so hours on the train has barely made a dent in his habitual exhaustion. 

“I suppose you know what our plans are?” Will speaks quietly, his eyes raking over the station almost frantically, looking for any sign of them being followed, of someone knowing. 

“Have you visited Paris before, Will?”

“Never.”

“Then I think we should see the city, don’t you?”

Hannibal steers them through the busy Gare de Lyon to a taxi rank. “Hôtel Le Meurice, s’il vous plaît.”

The hotel is a Rococo confection of polished marble and gold. Hannibal leads him across the gleaming lily-scented lobby, utterly at home in in these elegant surroundings. “Bonjour. Si c’était possible,” he says, “nous voudrions deux chambres de lit pour ce soir, s’il vous plaît.”

Two rooms. 

Will shouldn’t be feeling disappointed. He sees Abigail’s eyes, empty and unseeing. He feels her blood on his hands, pouring out as she struggles, her eyes wide in terror. Her hand, reaching out towards him, asking for anything, anything. The blood pooling on the floor, leaking through his fingers as her life force slips away from him. He sees Alana. Jack. The Ripper’s victims, their bodies twisted into art, into elegance. 

His shoulders suddenly feel heavy, and his body nearly slumps. Guilt weighs down on him. 

“They will keep our bags for us until check-in time, later,” Hannibal says, turning to Will with a smile. “So we can explore the city at our leisure today. First, however, I suggest breakfast.”

Hannibal’s smile is different. Nothing like the half-smiles he bestows upon his dinner guests, nothing like the slow curl of his lips that used to send shivers down his spine. Will isn’t foolish enough to believe that Hannibal has let his inviolable mask slip away. He doesn’t believe that the Ripper’s glacial front has melted. 

For all he knows, this smile is another mask, a mask reserved just for him. Perhaps it’s another calculated, deliberate move, just like every one of his steps.

And yet, Will feels his neck warming, feels his heart rate increasing ever so slightly. 

Two rooms.

The disappointment returns.

Will wonders which one he would rather live with. The loneliness, consuming him with every breath until he drifts away, or the guilt, tightening its hand around his throat until he stops breathing entirely? 

***   
They walk through the Jardin des Teuleries, past the Louvre with its snaking queue of tourists, along the Seine towards the Cathedral Notre-Dame.

People around them continue to go on with their lives. Men, women, children, families. And none of them have a clue. A woman brushes past them, her eyes glued to her phone, her bag hitting Hannibal’s arm. Without an apology, she continues on her way, indifferent. She would have been more careful, perhaps, had she known that the maroon eyes tracing her path through the street belong to the Chesapeake Ripper. 

But she doesn’t know. None of them do. 

Hannibal is, undoubtedly, a monster. Will too, is a kind of monster, for knowing what he knows and failing to care beyond breaking the silence of his own crippling loneliness. 

Will sees another woman, her eyes following Hannibal, taking in his powerful arms, long legs, sharp suit. Her lips curve up into an appreciative smile. Will’s own lips curl into a smile, a smile slightly more sinister than hers. If only she knew. 

Two monsters walking freely through the streets of Paris. 

He feels powerful. 

***

In the cathedral, the coloured lights through the magnificent stained glass window touch Will’s hair with blue and red. Hannibal pauses. Not for the first time, he notices the resemblance between Will Graham and a Renaissance saint. Saint Sebastian, perhaps, pierced by arrows. 

He would like to draw Will that way. The arrows to be imaginary, of course. He has no desire to hurt Will Graham. Quite the opposite, in fact. Last night on the train, listening to him sleep, Hannibal felt protective of Will. He felt that he would slaughter anyone who dared to harm a hair on Will’s head.

Including himself.

They emerge from the cathedral’s dusk, dancing with candles and cast rainbow shadows, to the bright noonday sun outside. Behind the cathedral is a market: today is the day for caged birds. Their chirps and shrieks fill the air. Hannibal watches a cage full of yellow-throated ortolans. 

He recalls Will Graham lifting one to his mouth. When he glances at Will, he sees Will’s tongue sneak out to moisten his bottom lip, as if expecting to taste something. Will is thinking of the same moment between them.

It was intimate, that dinner. Intimate, and cruel, and erotic. It had been his design: before he had known that Will had betrayed him; that he was still betraying him. It had been more of a seduction than a meal.

And now Will is here with him, in Paris, out of choice.

Hannibal nearly laughs aloud with a sudden burst of joy. Will, attuned to his moods, turns to him with half a smile on his face, half a beautiful smile, and Hannibal wants to touch him but he has promised himself to be patient. 

“Do you know what I would like to do?” says Hannibal.

“What?”

“I would like to rent a motorcycle and show you Paris from the back of it.”

Will’s smile grows, and that is exactly the response Hannibal wished for. 

“Of course,” he adds, “we aren’t dressed for it.”

**

He knows which jacket should be Will’s as soon as they walk into the shop. Still, he browses, watches Will pretending, out of politeness, to browse. Clothes shopping is clearly not Will’s idea of fun. 

Will holds up a black leather jacket. “What do you think?” 

“Try it on.” Hannibal tries not to appear interested. He selects another black leather jacket: collarless, soft and supple, and puts it on.

Will tries on the jacket and examines himself in the mirror. He turns to Hannibal, the words slipping from his mouth as he stares. 

“That jacket looks… good.” 

“Do you think?” Hannibal turns to look at the fit over his shoulder in the mirror.

“Definitely.” 

One corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks up at the vehemence in Will’s tone. Even if he hadn’t been certain already, this jacket would be his.

He plucks the jacket he’d already selected from the display and holds it out to Will. Deep blue leather. Will’s eyes are not that colour all the time; sometimes they are grey, and sometimes they are light blue, according to light and to mood, but in this jacket, they would be bright and clear.

“And yours looks good on you,” he says, “though I wonder if you would care to try this one?”

Wordlessly, Will takes off his jacket, and slips on the offered blue one. He adjusts the sleeves and, without looking at the mirror, turns to Hannibal. 

Hannibal can’t suppress the tiny inhalation. The appreciation. The...savouring. 

The colour makes Will’s fair skin almost porcelain, his dark hair almost black. Will’s eyes are bright, as bright as the sky behind the Cathédral Notre-Dame Paris. He nearly even looks…

Happy.

“I think that one suits you very well,” Hannibal says, and accompanies the sales assistant to the tills to pay for both of them.

Will follows Hannibal, nearly laughing in disbelief. If someone had told him a day ago that upon his arrival, he’d be _shopping_ with Doctor Hannibal Lecter, he’d have laughed. He had expected violence, blood, death; at the very least, he expected silence, rejection. A long talk between them; the twisted words of manipulation and deceit, painful little lies and cruel little words. The slight twitch of Hannibal’s lips into that monstrous smile. 

But they’re _shopping._

He wants himself to be angry, he wants to feel that cold rage. He doesn’t. The guilt crushes down on him, a dark hand squeezing his throat painfully. 

And yet, the small smile on his lips doesn’t fade. 

He didn’t expect acceptance. 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Will looks at Hannibal, and wordlessly hands the sales associate his credit card. 

“No, let me get these,” says Hannibal. “Please. It would give me a great deal of pleasure.” 

He hands the associate a sheaf of Euros, and she looks from Hannibal to Will, her thoughts clear. _Sugar daddy._

“No.” Will’s voice is flat. His eyes narrow, his face expressionless as he pointedly looks at his credit card in the sales associate’s hand. “Go on.” 

Hannibal leans over the sales counter. “Il est l’anniversaire de notre première rencontre,” he murmurs to the woman, “mais il est un peu gêné.” 

He winks at her.

She smiles, and takes Hannibal’s money. “Je comprends parfaitement,” she says.

Shopping bags hanging from his arm, Hannibal steers Will out of the shop with his hand in the small of his back. “Féliciations!” she calls after them.

Will glares at Hannibal, and steps away from the hand on his back. 

“You can no longer use your credit card,” Hannibal says to him, quietly. “I am on the run, and you are with me. If we want to be safe, you cannot be traceable.”

He stills. “But the FBI doesn’t have a reason to keep tabs on me anymore. For all they know, I’m in Florida.” 

“All it takes is one person to suspect.” He gazes at Will with compassion. “It is a skill you are not used to, living in the shadows. You have lived apart from the world, but you have been in the world. You have not been required to disappear. Now...it is necessary.” He hands Will the bag with his new jacket in it. “As an FBI agent, you have had a measure of protection. Now that is gone. One slip, one mistake, could end this life. And yet, unprotected, we are nevertheless much more free than we ever were in Baltimore, and Wolf Trap.”

Will clears his throat, “... And what if I told you I transferred all my money to a private bank, under a different name?”

Hannibal smiles. “Then I would be very proud and pleased. But it is still wiser, whenever possible, to use cash.”

Will nods. They walk together to where Hannibal has parked the motorcycle he rented. It’s sleek, black and chrome, and it looks very fast. Hannibal briefly runs his palm over its polished surface.

“She’s beautiful.” 

“Yes,” agrees Hannibal. He puts on his leather jacket, and hands Will a helmet before strapping his on. Then he straddles the bike and waits for Will to join him on the back.

Hesitantly, Will puts on the helmet, and swings his body over the seat. “So, where exactly are we going?” 

“Anywhere. Everywhere. Let’s see Paris.” Hannibal waits until Will’s arms are snugly around his waist, and then he revs the engine, and drives.

**

Hannibal’s reflexes are superb. He drives the motorcycle with precision, just slightly too fast, at times fast enough so that Will is...not frightened, but his arms tense on Hannibal. And yet he never makes a mistake, never clips a curb, never approaches another car or bike too closely. He weaves in and out of the chaotic traffic around the Arc de Triomphe and through narrow streets, slowing as they pass landmarks. 

It’s exhilarating. 

Everything with Hannibal is always fast, thrilling. Here, in Paris, running away from the law, Will has never felt so free. His hands tighten reflexively around Hannibal’s waist as the bike accelerates, and he throws back his head as joyful laughter escapes his lips. 

Hannibal hears the laughter before it’s ripped away in the wind behind them and he guns the engine, goes faster. Steers effortlessly up the steep roads of Montmartre and dodges tourists near the confection of Sacre Coeur. He swerves into side streets, drives until the buildings are a blur, both of their bodies leaning together into the turns, communicating without words or eye contact.

He pulls up, finally, nearly breathless, by a stone gateway, and pulls off his helmet. 

Will gets off the bike, placing his helmet on the seat. He looks at Hannibal, his windswept hair, his black leather jacket. In that moment, he sees himself burying his fingers in Hannibal’s hair and kissing him until he forgets his own name. 

He shakes himself and averts his eyes, his face reddening. The hand around his throat tightens, the guilt making it hard to breathe. Will doesn’t care. 

“Shall we take a walk?” Hannibal asks.

“A walk sounds good,” Will is breathless. 

“It’s the Cimitière du Père Lachaise,” Hannibal tells him, as they walk through the stone gates and into a jumbled world of statues and mausoleums. A cobbled avenue lined with tombs and trees. “A little morbid, perhaps, but I find it soothing. The Parisians know how to appreciate death.”

After the roar of the motorcycle, the rush of the wind, the cemetery is hushed and still. Hannibal finds he misses the sensation of Will’s arms around his waist. He glances at the other man; a smile still lingers on his lips.

It’s quiet. Very quiet. 

“I’ve always found death to be a strange concept.” says Will. “I have never feared dying itself, but I feared the consequences of death.” 

“Death is a natural part of life,” replies Hannibal. “There is nothing to be feared from death. It will happen to all of us, and it is to be embraced. The knowledge of our death makes us free to use all our time while we are alive.” 

“Dying isn’t my fear, Hannibal. Before, I was afraid of what would happen to my dogs if I were to die one day. If they would be sent to good home.” Will pauses, taking a deep breath, “But that doesn’t matter now. As you said, dying is a part of life.”

Hannibal nods at a family who have spread a picnic blanket out on the grass between tombs. Mother and father drink wine, and the two children, a boy and a smaller girl, are kicking a ball back and forth. “This is the sort of place where I would like to be buried,” Hannibal says. “Someplace that is touched by life. Where children could play.”

The little boy kicks the ball too hard for his sister; it goes through her stubby legs and she shrieks and runs after it. The ball lands at Will’s feet and he stops it before it can roll away down the slight slope. He stoops to pick it up.

The little girl trips on a cobblestone and goes flying forward, straight into Will’s arms. He catches her before she can fall on her face and sets her upright on her feet. The little girl beams up at him, digging big dimples into her cheeks. “Merci, monsieur,” she lisps.

Will gives her the ball, and she toddles away. He watches her go, an involuntary smile on his face.

“Feeling paternal, Will?” says Hannibal.

He realises his mistake as soon as he has said it. Will’s face goes utterly white. All trace of his smile vanishes.

“... That was out of line,” Will says. 

“That…”

Their easy mood has evaporated. All the joy of riding together, all the exhilaration of each other’s company. Will’s face is hard and grief-stricken at being reminded of their conversation about Abigail. Back when he thought he could be some sort of father to her.

When she was alive.

“...That was a mistake,” says Hannibal. 

Will swallows heavily, clenching his fist. His nails dig painfully into his palm, but he barely notices. The grief washes over him, ruthlessly carrying away his small moment of contentment. Standing here, in the Père Lachaise Cemetery, he remembers that he never even visited Abigail’s grave. Did anyone go to her funeral, other than reporters looking for a story? Does anyone bother to occasionally place her favorite flowers on her grave? Would she even want him to visit her, after everything he has done? 

His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t notice. There is a heavy weight on his chest, accompanying the hand around his throat. 

Selfish. He was so selfish. Even now, he is so selfish. He didn’t allow himself to see any further than the pain of his own loneliness, he didn’t bother to consider the implications of his actions. 

_His_ loneliness, _his_ pain, _his_ anger, _his_ wound, _his_ loss. 

What about her? What about Abigail? Abigail, who lost her innocence and her childhood. Abigail, who was willing to do anything to keep her family together. Abigail, who lost everything, despite her best efforts. The young girl who tried so very hard to be strong, to stand while the world around her crumbled. 

And she’ll never experience her first day at university. She’ll never be able to read the book she had been wanting to read for so long. She’ll never be able to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, never be able to own a house, have a family. And she knew. Lying on the floor, silently praying and pleading and begging for another year, or day, or hour, or second, she was not ignorant of what she was losing. 

Abigail died, knowing there was no hope, knowing that her dreams were lost and her future nonexistent. Knowing that her story would be buried, that the words “murder” and “death” were etched deeply into her name.

She suffered for his mistakes. He failed her. 

Will had not allowed himself to grieve, to cry. Reaching Hannibal had been his priority. She lost her life because of his mistakes. And he… he was indifferent towards her death for weeks after his recovery, thinking only about his own pain. 

He tries to remember a time when she was happy. Her eyes, shining with joy. Her lips, curved into a smile. The echoes of warm laughter. 

A clawed hand closes around his heart, as it beats faster and faster. 

He can’t remember. 

The memories of Abigail’s laugh are replaced by her sharp, painful gasps as she tried to catch her last breaths. The image of her eyes, wide with terror and pain. Her warm smile is replaced by her bruised lips, bloody as she bit down on them to swallow down her screams. Her cheeks, wet with tears, mingling with her blood. Blood. Dark, red blood. The color of Hannibal’s eyes. 

Here they are, the monsters responsible for her death. 

_Feeling paternal, Will?_

Does it really matter? If she was ever his daughter, he failed her.

Hannibal watches Will. He can see every emotion: the shock, the grief, the anger, the guilt, the horror. He can’t savour it. He can’t feel anything but responsible.

Here in this cemetery, death all around them, they are truly haunted by only one death.

He touches Will on the shoulder, and he flinches. Hannibal’s face sets.

“Meet me here in one hour,” he says. “I promise you, I will return.”

And then he turns and walks out of the cemetery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Abigail and wine


	7. A Monster of a Different Species

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mourning Abigail together, Hannibal and Will can take the next step in their relationship.

It is only on his way back to the cemetery that it occurs to Hannibal that Will might not be waiting for him. 

Will has every reason in the world to leave. Hannibal has stabbed him, manipulated him, failed to treat his life-threatening illness, framed him for murder, encouraged him to become a killer himself. He has sent Will to the lair of a waiting serial killer, and sent another serial killer to Will’s own home. He has killed Will’s friend. He has taken their surrogate daughter from Will, made Will believe he had killed her himself, and then slashed her throat in front of him in the kitchen. In a final cruel twist, Hannibal has recreated the death that Will had saved Abigail from at the hands of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. 

Even Hannibal Lecter has to admit that this is rather a lot of provocation. 

And yet...yet he came to find Hannibal, without any weapons in his hands. Without the protection of the FBI. Hannibal could have killed Will at any point in the past twenty-four hours—and Will knows this—but Will has trusted him. 

Or he _has_ trusted Hannibal, right up to the point that Hannibal reminded him of the one thing that Will might find unforgivable.

He rides faster, as fast as he can with his cargo on the back of the motorcycle. What if Will has gone? Should he go looking for him?

And if he does go looking for Will: what should he do when he finds him?

Will knows as much, if not more, about Hannibal’s whereabouts and way of living, as Bedelia Du Maurier. And Hannibal has promised Bedelia that he will not call on her. But Bedelia knows that if Hannibal is found, she will be in nearly as much danger as he is. 

Will has no such motivation to keep quiet. There is no reason for Will not to turn Hannibal in to the FBI or to Interpol. He has not done so yet, but Hannibal may have just reminded him why he should.

It is, in fact, against Will’s self-interest to allow Hannibal to stay free. Unless Will feels a loyalty to Hannibal, or unless he feels…

Hannibal stops the motorcycle near the gates of the cemetery, the same place he parked it earlier. If Will isn’t here…

He may go after him. He may not be able to resist doing so.

But he has no desire to hurt Will Graham. Not again. Not now.

Not since he has seen the pain in Will’s face because Hannibal has merely chosen the wrong words.

He takes off his helmet and proceeds into the cemetery. The picnicking family is gone. For a single, chilling moment he does not see Will.

Then he catches a glimpse of a blue leather jacket, and he exhales in relief. He hadn’t even realised he was holding his breath.

Will is sitting on a bench, his eyes trained on his hands. He doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching him, his mind too far into his memories to notice the world around him. 

Hannibal sits beside him. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

Will looks up. He speaks quietly, “You expected me to leave?” 

“I...thought it was not unlikely.”

Will clenches his fists, eyes fixed on the ground. “Maybe I should.” He won’t. 

“I wonder if you would do something with me.”

“Do what?” 

In answer, Hannibal stands, and waits for Will to follow him out of the cemetery gates, to where he has parked the motorcycle. Lashed to the back is an ash sapling, its roots carefully swaddled in burlap. Its narrow leaves flutter in the slight breeze.

“I thought,” says Hannibal, “that we could drive up to the Bois de Vincennes and plant this ash tree. In memory of Abigail. If you...think it is fitting?”

He is not quite prepared for how uncertain he feels of Will’s answer. 

Will doesn’t say anything for a long time. He unclenches his fist, raising a trembling hand towards the small ash sapling. He stops, swallowing, and drops his hand back to his side. Wordlessly, he puts on his helmet and waits for Hannibal to do the same. 

*  
Hannibal parks the bike and unstraps the sapling from the back of it, along with a spade. Together, he and Will walk through the park, into the trees, where it is quiet and shaded.

“Neither of us has visited Abigail’s grave,” he says to Will. “But we can choose our spot to remember her. Where would you choose, Will?”

Will’s voice is barely a whisper as he speaks, “Do you see that small clearing? A small patch of sunlight is shining directly over it. It’s next to the white flowers. In front of the old, tall tree. It’s peaceful. In a way, I suppose it’s even innocent. She was surrounded by so much darkness and pain, and yet, she was innocent in so many ways,” his voice is suddenly stronger, “I can never give her life back to her. In the eyes of the world, her name will forever be tainted by murder. But here, planting this tree… Abigail’s clearing will always be the one place in the world, in her memory, where the darkness cannot find her.” 

He continues, voice wavering, “No reluctant family members, no reporters, no ignorant crowds. Just us. The warmth of the sun, and the love we share for her. A physical reminder, perhaps, of the fact that we will always care for her.”

Will starts digging a small hole for the tree, in the small clearing. 

He turns to Hannibal, “We will place the tree into the ground together. But you will fill the hole again. You will close the wound.” 

“That is fitting,” says Hannibal quietly.

Will finishes digging the hole, and brings the small ash sapling. He looks at Hannibal expectantly. Hannibal kneels by the hole and grasps the tree below where Will holds it.

Together, they lower the tree into the ground. 

A single tear rolls down Will’s cheek. Hannibal watches it as it falls. He sees where it lands.

He scoops up the earth, with Will’s tear, with his bare hands, and he scatters it among the roots.

Carefully, Hannibal seals the earth around the tree. Healing the wound. Making space for a new life to grow. He pats down the dirt tenderly. Remembering his hand on Abigail’s cheek. Dampened by her tears.

“I am sorry, Abigail,” he whispers, and the narrow, graceful leaves of the tree shiver in a sort of response.

He glances over at Will. His face is soft with grief. Hannibal knows this will be the first time he has allowed himself to cry over Abigail’s second death. He would like to comfort him, but he is not entirely sure how much Will would allow him to.

But then Will raises his eyes to his for a long moment, and Hannibal understands: right now, there is no comfort. Sharing this grief is enough.

Will looks at Abigail’s tree one last time, and walks away, away from the park. Silently, he leans against the motorcycle, waiting for Hannibal. 

Hannibal stands up, brushes the earth from his trousers. His hands are dirty. He gazes at them for a moment, almost as if he could still see Abigail’s blood there.

Then he joins Will at the motorcycle. “I think,” he says, “I could do with a drink.”

Will feels the weight on his chest disappear, feels the hand squeezing his throat let go. They have forgiven each other. They have left their past behind them. 

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes; the color of drying blood. His eyes travel down to his lips. _Lips capable of both kindness and cruelty._ He slowly raises a trembling hand to his cool, smooth cheek. His breath stutters, and for a small moment, Will presses his lips against Hannibal’s. Almost immediately, his eyes widen and he steps back, an apology burning on his tongue. 

And then Hannibal seizes him by the shoulders and pulls him back for another kiss.

Will’s kiss was almost chaste. Almost platonic. Hannibal’s isn’t. He holds Will tight against him and tangles his fingers in his curls and he kisses him hard and hot and almost desperate, with nearly all the fury and wanting and desire that he has been controlling for so long.

Will gasps, but doesn’t pull away. His hands grip Hannibal’s arms tightly, and he can feel the cool metal of the motorcycle behind him. The ferocity of the kiss surprises him, and yet, his hands move up to rest on Hannibal’s shoulders. The Chesapeake Ripper’s fingers thread through his hair, and Will gives in— _how can he not?_ —and kisses him back. They have put their past behind them, they have forgiven each other. The guilt squeezing his throat doesn’t return, and upon the realization, Will stops thinking. 

Hannibal feels the exact moment when Will’s response turns from surprise to answering desire and the change makes him even hungrier. He presses Will up against the motorcycle and, as Will’s lips open below his, he dips his tongue into his mouth to taste him and it is overwhelming. Too much.

Not nearly enough.

When they break apart, they are both breathing hard. Will’s cheeks are flushed and Hannibal’s eyes are unfocused. Their lips are red; on the point of bruising.

“I could really use that drink now,” says Hannibal. His voice is both rough and unsteady.

If the words that come out from Hannibal’s mouth are sensual, his kisses are positively erotic. 

Will leans in, pressing one last, sweet kiss on Hannibal’s lips. He wants to lean in again and again, desperately wants to bury his hands in Hannibal’s immaculate hair and kiss him until their worries disappear. 

Now, standing here, Will knows that he could kiss Hannibal forever. He wants to drown in his lips, let himself sink and be carried away by the currents. 

It scares him.

It scares him that the only time he sees himself clearly is when he’s with Hannibal. It scares Will that he seems to bring out traits in him that he never knew existed. That he’s kissing a monster playing human, and that he _doesn’t care_. An apology and a drug to counter his loneliness is all it took for him to let go of his guilt and anger, and give in. 

But as he stands here, his breath mingling with Hannibal’s, Will can breathe again.

He’s as much of a monster as Hannibal is. Just a monster of a different species. 

It excites him. It terrifies him. 

Life never travels on a straight, narrow path. There are twists and turns, broken roads and diverging lanes. And sometimes, a road isn’t enough. It isn’t always possible to be grounded. Sometimes, it is necessary to fly, to swim, to climb and jump. He is scared, unsure, lost in the roaring, unpredictable ocean. But he is free. 

“Me too.”

This time, as they ride the motorcycle, Hannibal is even more aware of Will’s body behind his. Will hanging on tight, his arms around Hannibal’s waist, his belly pressed to Hannibal’s back, his thighs either side of him. Their bodies work in tandem with the motorcycle and each other and as he drives, Hannibal can taste Will on his lips.

He feels happy and dangerous.

They pull up outside a bistro and although they don’t speak, Hannibal sees the light gleaming in Will’s eyes. He knows that Will has made a decision. 

The silence between them is comfortable as they sit across from each other. And yet, they can feel the underlying tension, waiting to emerge. Will swallows, looking up to meet Hannibal’s eyes, for just a second. One second turns to two, two turns to four, and Will can’t look away. Hannibal meets his gaze evenly, an unidentifiable expression on his face. 

“You used to say—” Hannibal’s voice is low and throaty, intimate in the quiet bistro— “that you did not enjoy eye contact.”

Upon hearing the words, Will immediately looks down, flushing, “I was… wrong. Sometimes, distractions are a good thing, and other times, eyes are deep enough to drown out all the other unwanted thoughts and motives. There are some eyes… that are worth seeing.”

“Yours are,” says Hannibal. A waitress arrives, and he orders a bottle of Bordeaux, hardly glancing away from Will’s face.

“I find that hard to believe. People don’t generally like eyes that see too much.” 

“That’s one of the things I like the most about yours.”

“You’d be the first. It’s one of the things I hate about mine.”

“Perhaps I like being the first.” Hannibal slides his hand over the table; touches Will’s. “You have always had the ability to see me. Even when you did not know you did. You are extraordinary.”

Will looks up again, eyes meeting Hannibal’s. “You are the only one to not shy away from my ‘gift’. I don’t know how to…” He struggles for words, “I… You find my _mind_ to be extraordinary, Doctor Lecter.” 

“I find every part of you to be extraordinary.” Hannibal touches his bottom lip with his tongue. A reminder of their kiss.

“I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Then don’t.” The waitress arrives, opens the bottle. She pours a drop for Hannibal to taste; he savours, eyes closed, and nods. She pours them each a glass of wine and melts away.

Hannibal holds up his glass. “To Abigail,” he says.

“To Abby.” 

They touch glasses. The wine is fragrant and rich, the colour of blood or rubies.

“I’ve never heard you call her ‘Abby’,” says Hannibal.

His voice is quiet, “I always wanted to, but could never build up the courage. I was afraid of getting too close to her, only to have her lash out against me. She had every reason to do so.”

“The dead are safer than the living. In our hearts, we can be as close to them as we care to be.” He sips his wine, but again he reaches across the table. His thumb on the back of Will’s hand is gentle, soothing.

“If only forming connections with the living was as easy as forming connections with the dead.” 

“You and I are forming a connection. Aren’t we?”

Will looks at Hannibal’s hand on his. “I suppose we are. But I think we both know, better than most, that connections don’t always last.” 

“Nothing lasts, Will. Our experience today is proof of that. We can choose to fear the future, or to live in the present.” He takes a sip of wine. “Our present is here, with each other. And if you don’t mind, although I seldom drink to excess, tonight I intend to get drunk.”

“Drinking in excess isn’t something I’m unfamiliar with.” Will finishes his wine. Hannibal pours them both more. He takes his hand away from Will’s; a small loss.

“What about living in the present?” Hannibal asks.

“Living in the present? I think I first need to learn how to live in my own mind.” 

“You can live in mine. If you like.” Hannibal holds his eye contact for a long moment. “I am open to you, Will. In ways I have never been open to anyone before.”

“I would prefer to interact with your mind. Living in your mind would leave me open to blindness, to bias.”

“Was our kiss about a meeting of minds, Will?”

Will straightens, taken aback by the forthright question. “I don’t know.”

“You kissed me for a reason. What was it?”

“I don’t know.” 

Hannibal pours more wine. “Alana once said that you and I share a pathology.”

“Did she, now?” Will’s mouth straightens into a grim line. “That's… interesting. I wonder what she meant by that.” He takes another sip of his wine, contemplating. “Now that we are speaking of Alana… ”

“Yes?”

Will swallows, looking away. “Did you ever—” The words slip away from him. The wine drags them back. “—have feelings for her? 

“Ah.”

Will clenches his fists, eyes focused on the carpet. This was a bad idea. But he can’t take the words back. 

“Did you?” he asks.

Hannibal drinks.. “If I were still your therapist, I would answer that question with another question. Perhaps with a query about why you thought it was important.”

“Unless you kiss all your patients, you are not my therapist anymore.” 

“The pathology that Alana said we share is that we flirt when we want to divert attention.” Hannibal drains his glass and signals the waitress for another bottle. “May I flirt, or do you want an answer?”

His nails dig into his palms. “... I would like an answer, please.”

“Alana and I have known each other for a very long time. She has been a student, a colleague, and a friend. We were lovers, as well. It would be unnatural if I did not have feelings for her.” He lowers his voice. “But I will tell you that whenever I was with Alana, I never failed to think of you.”

“And Bedelia?” His voice is sharp, his response immediate. He regrets it as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Will wants to do nothing more than tape his mouth shut and make sure he never drinks wine again. 

“Bedelia is also a colleague. A friend. An extraordinary woman. She...was not my first choice as a travelling companion. You were.”

Will hears Hannibal, hears the appeasing tone. But his mind is ruthlessly flooded with images. Beautiful Alana Bloom. Elegant Bedelia Du Maurier. His chest tightens painfully, and he downs his wine. Immediately, he pours himself another glass and once again, drinks it in one go. He doesn’t bother saying another word to Hannibal, choosing to instead fix his eyes on the wall behind him.

The bottle is empty. Hannibal orders another. He waits until the waitress has delivered it and they have gone through the ritual of tasting and pouring before he reaches across the table and runs his thumb over Will’s lower lip.

“You have wine on your mouth,” he murmurs.

Will’s voice is sharper than it was before, “Do I?”

Hannibal nods. “In fact, it’s a stain. It won’t come off for my thumb.”

He leans over the table and kisses Will. He runs his tongue lightly over Will’s lip.

“You are unlike anyone else I’ve ever met in my life,” he whispers against Will’s mouth. “How can I prove this to you?”

For a terrifying moment, Will feels his eyes stinging. And then his fists, clenched almost painfully, loosen. His body slackens, his shoulders hunch down. He doesn’t think Hannibal can ever prove this to him. He doesn’t know if he even wants him to. 

“I want to leave.”

Will stands up, pulling away from Hannibal. Hannibal catches his wrist.

“Kaip aš galiu įtikinti jus, mano gražus berniukas?” The words are smooth and fluent, sweet as honey, a language that Will has never heard before from Hannibal’s mouth.

Slowly, Will sits back down. The words flow beautifully from Hannibal’s mouth. Unknowingly, he relaxes. 

He thinks of Abigail, of Alana, of the many lives Hannibal has taken. “I’m sorry.” Sorry for what he’s about to do. Sorry for knowing, and being unable to care past his own selfishness. 

“You have no need to be sorry. Esu laimingas, kad su jumis. Aš taip džiaugiuosi, kad jums rasti mane.” 

“I am being… difficult.” Jack would say that. But Jack isn’t here. 

“If you were predictable, you would be less than yourself.”

In that moment, Will knows why he came here. 

Why he gave away his dogs, carelessly tossed away his life, and came after Hannibal. He knows why he kissed him, and understands why he doesn’t care about Hannibal being a monster. It terrifies him. _“Our present is here, with each other.”_ He doesn’t care. 

Gently, Will puts his hand on Hannibal’s cheek. His voice is soft, almost drowning in the emotions that he now understands. “I don’t regret coming here.” 

“When you walked into my office,” says Hannibal, “I was the happiest I have been in a very long time.” 

Hannibal kisses him again. The wine forgotten, the bistro forgotten, all the people around them forgotten.

Will has come this far, standing on the edge. Without any regrets, he lets himself go. He kisses Hannibal back.

Their lips fit perfectly together, and within seconds, the world around them is nothing but a blur. Will wonders if their kiss affects Hannibal as much as it affects him. 

The large forts of self control crumble in his mind, and he can almost hear the deafening crash. Now that he has given in, now that the guilt isn’t squeezing his throat, Will has nothing holding him back. He kisses Hannibal deeply, hoping to articulate with his actions what he can’t articulate with words. 

When Hannibal pulls away, his lips are red and his hair disheveled. Belatedly, Will realizes that his fingers threading through the doctor’s hair are the cause of the dishevelment. 

Hannibal’s voice is low, intimate as he murmurs against Will’s lips. “Do we require two rooms tonight?”

It’s a miracle that Will even understands the words coming out of his mouth. He speaks, hoping that he is at least partially coherent. 

“Two rooms, Doctor Lecter? After this?”

They have always been predators of two different kinds. A hunter and a fisherman. Hannibal enjoys the chase, while Will prefers to lure. But here, in France, he wonders how much they have taught each other. Hannibal lured him across the ocean, and Will gladly accepted the thrill of the chase. 

His voice is barely a whisper as he presses a small kiss to Hannibal’s lips. 

“Don’t you dare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter...all is not well in Paris


	8. The Sun Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will make love for the first time...and everything changes.

Hannibal Lecter wakes up as he always does: fully and all at once. He has a brief moment of awareness before he opens his eyes, where he registers and catalogues the sensations. 

The skin around his mouth is rubbed raw. His muscles ache pleasantly from exertion. A warm body curls around him: a hand on his chest, thigh across his own, head in the hollow of his shoulder. He feels Will Graham’s soft breath on his chest and hears its regular susurration. He smells the scent of Will’s skin and hair, the faint lingering smell of cedar soap and wine, the musky fragrance of their mutual pleasure.

Outside, the sounds of Paris. The sun has just risen. 

So he thinks he is prepared before he opens his eyes.

But he isn’t.

Will is smiling in his sleep. A faint flush on his cheeks, his lips red from kissing. Dark stubble, dishevelled hair...and a faint, sleepy smile.

He looks peaceful, happy, content, and Hannibal remembers last night. When they stumbled out from the bistro and kissed on the street corner, drunk on each other as much as the wine. When Will pressed him against the a wall of a building and kissed him there. When they found a cab and fell into it, laughing, grasping on to each other, and how when they got to the hotel Will waited only until they were alone in the lift to start unbuttoning Hannibal’s shirt and pulling it out of the waistband of his trousers.

He had expected some reluctance from Will. He had expected to do some seducing. He had expected capitulation, a ceding of control, a gradual unearthing of passion long buried and denied.

He had not expected such urgency and hunger. Or for Will to take the lead. 

He had not expected the moments during their lovemaking when Will looked into his eyes and Hannibal knew, without any doubt, that Will understood what he was feeling. That Will was experiencing both of their pleasure. Both of their passion. Both of their grief and their loneliness.

That Will understood _him_.

That in those moments, the person mask was gone and Will was making love with the true Hannibal Lecter.

Not like Bedelia, who knew Hannibal’s crimes—or some of them—and came to his bed despite them. Will knew _him_. _Knows_ him. Knows every nuance of his emotion and his needs, his regrets and hopes. 

Will has come to his bed not despite his crimes, but _because_ of them.

And yet Will looks peaceful. Content. Happy.

Hannibal’s eyes are open. He is aware of a quickening of his breath; of his heart racing in his chest. 

He expected pleasure and release and fulfilment of desire. He did not expect intimacy, or at least not so much of it.

He has never felt so naked. 

Quickly, he disengages himself from Will, who murmurs slightly in his sleep and curls up in the warm space he has left. As he dresses, he notices that his always-steady hands are trembling.

He takes certain items from his suitcase and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

**  
_It’s almost like a dance._

_Their bodies are moving together in perfect coordination, their movements fluid and graceful._

_It’s a seductive tango, fueled by forgiveness and acceptance. A new beginning._

_Hannibal presses him against the door of their hotel room, as Will tugs on his tie, bringing him closer for another kiss. Like everything Hannibal does, his kisses are beautiful. It is, perhaps, the wrong word to use to describe a kiss, but it is the only word to do it justice. Hannibal kisses him as if Will is the center of his world, his sun, his most precious treasure. And as he groans into Hannibal’s mouth, he realizes that he had never truly appreciated the sensuality and intimacy of kissing until he kissed Doctor Hannibal Lecter._

_It’s as if his lips were made just for Will._

_Every meeting with Hannibal, whether it’s a meeting of minds or a sensual dance, carries a kind of intensity that he has never experienced in his life._

_Hannibal’s grip is both harsh and loving, rough and gentle. His movements are both poetic and animalistic; each movement fueled by emotion, but expressed through lustful need. An impossible combination for an impossible man._

_Will presses soft kisses to Hannibal’s neck, trying to articulate through his actions what he can’t articulate with words. His heart is beating faster and faster against his chest, as his fingers struggle to unbutton Hannibal’s shirt. He gasps as Hannibal’s hand grips his hair and roughly turns his head to the side, lightly biting his neck._

_He doesn’t even notice the hands quickly unbuttoning his shirt until they suddenly pause , until Hannibal stops moving completely, standing as still as a statue. His grip on Will’s hair loosens._

_Breathing heavily, he turns his head to look into Hannibal’s eyes. But his eyes, his maroon eyes, are focused on his stomach. Will’s chest tightens, his own eyes following his lover’s gaze._

_The scar._

_It’s long, jagged. Ugly. The raised skin is pink, the edges curling up on themselves. However, as ugly as the scar is, the meaning behind it is uglier. A representation of Will’s betrayal, of Hannibal’s rage. A physical reminder of their rift; an obstacle, a boundary. If either of them had doubts, now would be the time to take a step back._

_Will has never been able to look at the scar for more than a few seconds at a time._

_And yet, as he raises his head to look into those maroon eyes once more, he notices that they are still focused intently on his stomach. Hannibal’s hand moves from his head, slowly traveling down his neck and chest to rest next to the pink, raised skin._

_His fingers—the long fingers of a surgeon, an artist, a pianist, somehow both strong and delicate; just another observation to add to the list of impossibilities belonging to this impossible man—trail over the skin near his scar, never directly touching the raised skin._

_‘I did this to you,’ he whispers. ‘I gave you this.’_

_Will doesn’t say anything. His body is suddenly stiff, and his eyes are trained on Hannibal’s face, waiting for the inevitable. He doesn’t look down. He can’t._

_And then Hannibal runs his fingers over the scar itself. The place where the nerve endings are both numb and super-sensitive; the very place where Hannibal’s knife penetrated his flesh. Cut deep._

_‘It is beautiful,’ he says, and his voice is full of wonder and reverence._

_Of the many things Will Graham expected to hear, ‘beautiful’ was not one of them._

_But perhaps, the scar really is beautiful. Not physically, no. To the world, it’s an ugly, jagged line running across his stomach. To the world, the intimacy that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham share is a dark, unforgivable distortion. One that shouldn’t exist, one capable of causing so much chaos and pain._

_But to them, it is beautiful._

_Beautiful, because it represents the strength of their bond. It’s a physical reminder of their past, but also a proof of their strength. The scar has healed, leaving behind something different, something new. A broken bridge, repaired into something stronger._

_As Will’s lips twitch into a slow smile, he marvels at his inability to feel guilt, to crumble under the judgmental eyes of the world._

_He has surrendered completely to his desires._

**

Will wakes up with a soft smile—

And for a second, everything is right. But only for a small, insignificant second. 

—The smile disappears entirely as he realizes that the bed is cold. 

“Hannibal?” 

He slowly sits up, eyes raking over the dark room. Sunlight peaks through the curtains. On the other side of the room, their clothes are neatly folded into a pile. The room is quiet; the only sounds he can hear are the birds chirping outside, and the steady hum of morning traffic. Hannibal is nowhere to be seen. 

Will had been under the assumption that last night was something… more. A meeting of minds, an act signifying acceptance and forgiveness. For the past few months, the only thought preventing him from abandoning his plan had been the assumption that he had changed Hannibal Lecter as much as he had changed Will. 

Perhaps he was wrong. 

He runs a hand through his hair. Perhaps he was wrong in assuming that Hannibal’s… feelings for him are as strong as his own. 

And isn’t that a mistake he has made before?

His ability—his _empathy_ —has always been a cruel gift. He feels too much. No one ever feels enough. Will can’t blame them; it is in his nature to feel more than others do. It’s hard to not feel for someone when he can understand them so deeply, so intimately. 

Will Graham, for years, refused to allow himself to form connections. 

Any connections he forms, whether they be of a platonic or romantic nature, are too deep. Uncomfortably deep. He realized a long time ago that expecting the same intensity from those around around him is… unreasonable. And if hoping for the same intensity is unreasonable, hoping for unconditional acceptance is worse. His instability leaves much to be desired. It’s—

_“Unfair.”_

_“I’m sorry, Will. I can’t. It’s too much, it’s too…”_

_“... It’s because I think you’re unstable.”_

—He jolts himself from his thoughts. 

It has happened too many times for him to naively allow himself to give in to his… feelings. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to hope. He should have expected this. 

However, as much as he _should_ have expected this, he didn’t. Will’s chest clenches painfully. And just as he didn’t expect this, he didn’t expect the heart-wrenching pain either. 

He needs to leave. 

Resigned, Will stands up and reaches for his bags. He picks up the neat pile of clothes—most likely a clue for him to leave—and carefully puts them inside his suitcase. Hurriedly, he begins taking out fresh, clean clothes. 

A knock on the door. Frowning, he goes to it and opens it a crack, to see a uniformed young man standing in the hallway next to a trolley laden with silver-domed plates. “Votre petit déjuener, monsieur.”

He stands aside to let the man in. The scent of coffee and warm bread fills the room. Obviously Hannibal did him this final courtesy, of ordering him breakfast. It’s typical of the man. He tips the waiter and goes back to packing, leaving the breakfast tray untouched.

The sound of the door opening interrupts him. Will pauses in his motions, his hands halfway inside his suitcase. 

Hannibal walks into the room. His hair is mussed; his cheeks flushed. Moving completely silently, he starts for the bathroom, but checks, seeing Will. “Oh,” he says. “You’re awake.”

He doesn’t sound pleased.

“I was just leaving,” Will says.

“Leaving? Before breakfast?” He goes to the room service trolley and pours a cup of coffee. The scent fills the room, dark and strong. Hannibal picks up the cup and it rattles on its saucer. He drinks, quickly. “Would you like a cup?” Without waiting for an answer, he pours one. The stream of steaming liquid wavers as his hand shakes slightly on the handle of the pot.

His chest tightens. “Yes. Isn’t that what you want?” Will’s eyes are fixed on Hannibal’s hands as he picks up his own cup, “Thank you very much.” 

“Why would I want you to leave? I thought we—”

Hannibal’s voice falters. The cup slips from his hand, coffee spilling onto the cream carpet, onto the tops of his shoes. It hits the leg of the trolley and breaks.

With wide eyes, Will crouches down, picking up the pieces of the broken cup. 

“Is something wrong?” Of course something is wrong. But he doubts Hannibal would appreciate his assumptions.

“It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’ll do that. It’s my mess to clean.” He kneels beside Will, gathering up shards. His hands are most definitely unsteady, his clothes and hair dishevelled.

Will puts his hand on Hannibal’s wrist. “What’s wrong, Hannibal? I have never seen you anything but calm and collected. Except for—”

 _Except for last night, when we were making love._ But something stops him from saying it.

“You don’t want to know.” Hannibal gathers up the last of the pieces, and stands. “It’s best that you don’t know.”

“You are worrying me.” 

“There’s no need to worry.” His lips tilt into the semblance of a smile. He puts the shards aside and takes Will’s hand to draw him closer. “Let me try to kiss you into agreeing to stay.” 

“Regardless, you are worrying me. I know that there’s something wrong, Hannibal. I’m afraid our pathology won’t help you slither out of answering this question.”

“Flirting would be easier. And safer for you.”

“Would you like to know what else would be safer for me? Not being here at all.”

Hannibal gazes at him. Will gazes back for a long moment, not dropping his eyes. Hannibal is the first to look away.

“Yes,” he says quietly, more to himself than to Will. Then he meets his eyes again. “It would be insulting to your intelligence and to the...path you have chosen, to conceal this from you. I was almost caught.”

His voice is strained. It is obvious that it costs him a great deal to say this.

Will’s hands move on their own accord, resting on Hannibal’s arms. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm not hurt. A bruise, perhaps, no more. I'm more...appalled with myself.”

Will releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding, “You have nothing to be appalled about.”

“I have much to be appalled at. I have never been so close to capture...except for when you tried to capture me.” The truth, spoken, seems to make Hannibal even more unsteady, and he mutters several words under his breath, in a language that isn’t English, or French, or Italian.

Will takes a deep breath, surprised at the unexpected surge of pride. He is the only person in the world to get so close to the Chesapeake Ripper. The only one to know both the Ripper and Hannibal Lecter, and live. 

“Mistakes are inevitable. We all make mistakes, Hannibal.” 

“I don't make mistakes, Will.” He puts his hands in his pockets and paces the room, like a caged animal. “I have been...reckless. I can only attribute it to our discussion about Abigail yesterday. I hadn't truly allowed myself to feel her death. And the natural reaction to death is to do things that make one feel alive.” He stops. “Such as flirting. Or getting drunk. Or making love.” 

Hannibal pauses, and swallows.

“Or, in my case…” he continues, “a very particular form of behaviour.”

“I think that under the circumstances, the mistake was inevitable,” says Will, gently. “Did you you stage another ripper-like murder?”

“'Stage' is possibly the wrong term. 'Bungle' is more like it.” Hannibal shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. “This doesn't bother you, Will? That I left you sleeping to commit murder?”

“No.” 

Will doesn’t even think before answering. His eyes widen as the word escapes his lips; even he is surprised by his answer. 

For months, his desperate need to see Hannibal had left him crippled with guilt. Yesterday, he gave in. However, up until now, Will hadn’t realized the implications of surrendering. With the understanding and connection they share, their relationship has always been ruled by a case of “All or nothing”. And yet, the extent of his acceptance surprises him. Will wonders how far he would be willing to bend for Hannibal Lecter. 

And then he knows.

“I can help you,” he says.”If you want me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Flowers


	9. Flowers and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will brings his own design to Hannibal's murder. His heart in his mouth...

Hannibal stills. 

These phrases, coming from Will’s mouth, are the phrases he has said to Abigail Hobbs. To Bedelia DuMaurier. To Randall Tier. To a series of people, some patients, some...otherwise. All desperate. All wanting a way out. _I can help you. If you want me to._

He has always been careful to include that second part. To ensure that it is not his insistence, but another’s request.

“How do you want to help me?” he asks.

Will closes his eyes—

Within moments, he’s in his office in Quantico, standing in front of a massive bookshelf. His fingers trail over the various case files. He picks up four at random and browses through them as fast as he can, the words and pictures traveling around him faster and faster. 

Until he’s standing in the eye of the hurricane, observing the gruesome disaster around him, watching the designs as they tear into his mind. 

He watches, until the case files form into one single design. The design doesn’t belong to any one killer. Will wonders if it’s his own. 

—A few seconds later, his eyes open once more. 

“I’m going to turn your ‘bungle’ into someone else’s design. Tell me what you did, where you did it, and how you did it. I’ll take your art and distort it into something unrecognizable. Without me working for them, they’ll never know it was you.”

“I cut him,” says Hannibal. “I wanted...I wanted to see blood. To taste it. He’s in the alleyway behind the hotel. It’s full daylight, and there was a pair of gendarmes nearby.” He shakes his head. “It was a stupid risk. And I dealt with it stupidly. I heard them coming, and I panicked and ran. I don’t...I never behave like this.”

 _Grutas_ , he thinks. _Grutas, also in France, all those years ago. That was bungled. And I ran._

_It was bungled because it meant too much to me. Because I was frightened._

But he doesn’t say that to Will.

Will slowly tilts his head to the side, closing his eyes once more. 

_Blood. Broad daylight. A killer mocking the world? Proving to the world that he has no reason to hide; not from himself, not from anyone. He doesn’t want to hide anything. Not his emotions, not his beloved. Nothing. His life is art, his mind is art, he’s a work of art that the world should bow down to, and appreciate, and love. Because he’s better, isn’t he?_

_His affections are a privilege. His art, in broad daylight, is a privilege for the viewers._

“I can work with that.” Will takes a deep breath, wishing his mind could work faster, “I… think I already have a design in mind.” 

Hannibal stares at Will Graham. This is...extraordinary. This is unprecedented. 

This is…

It shakes him more.

“What do you need?” he asks quietly.

Will closes his eyes again, “Gloves. Ropes, knives, bone drills, scissors, and...” His lips twitch into a small smile, “...flowers. And we’ll need flowers.”

He feels like he’s floating. Both observing and participating. 

“I have much of the equipment in my suitcase,” says Hannibal. “What flowers do you need?”

Will’s voice is soft, distant. “Moss rosebuds, amaryllis, white chrysanthemums, purple and yellow irises... and a red rose.” A pretty red rose, for a pretty red heart. 

Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment, picturing it. Scenting it. Seeing the entries in one of the many books in his mind: a Victorian language of flowers.

And this is...dangerous. This is Will Graham as he was last night, in the lift...in bed. Will Graham acting on pure desire and feeling.

This is dangerous and irresistible.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I understand. I will find the flowers.”

“Then are we ready to go?” 

So quickly, Will Graham is the master of this situation. Not Hannibal Lecter. 

Hannibal nods.

*

The flower markets of Paris open early, so the blooms stay fresh in the cool morning air. Hannibal returns as soon as he can, flowers wrapped in plain brown paper. The scent of them trails behind him as he walks through the Jardin des Tuileries. There’s no sign of the gendarmes who nearly discovered him earlier, no passers-by at an hour when most Parisians are more interested in finding coffee than discovering murder.

He ducks into the alleyway, as silently as he knows how to move. Even over the scent of the flowers, he smells blood.

At the end of the alley, bending over a body, is Will Graham. He is drenched in blood. He holds a bloody heart in his gloved hand.

Hannibal has to catch his breath.

The sight is so beautiful. So unutterably, perfectly beautiful. Savage, graceful and wise.

“Will,” he murmurs, and Will turns.

Wil straightens as he hears Hannibal’s voice. Slowly, he walks towards him, heart in his hand. He extends his arm towards Hannibal.

“I want you to take the red rose and place the stem through the heart.” 

The body is suspended in the alleyway. The chest cavity has been hollowed out, dripping blood on the ground.

The stem of the rose is cut at an angle, and sharp with thorns. Hannibal takes the heart, still warm, from Will’s hand, holding it in the paper wrapper, and pierces it with the flower. He looks from the flower to Will. Will’s face is intent, focused: almost as if he has been taken over by something other than himself.

Or perhaps by a part of himself that he has not fully appreciated or understood, until now.

Will gently takes the heart from Hannibal’s hands. His own hands are stained red, dripping blood. Slowly, he reaches upwards, opening the man’s mouth. Inside, he places the heart. With the rose in the heart, and the heart in his mouth, Will stands back, satisfied.

“It’s romantic,” says Hannibal, slowly. “With his heart in his mouth. He fears to speak what he feels.”

“Or…” Will replies, “or he wants the whole world to know what he feels. He’s letting the heart and rose in his mouth scream his emotions to the world.”

“This is...stunning,” says Hannibal. “You are stunning. Whose work are you emulating?”

“I… I actually don’t know. I don’t know if it’s yours, or anyone else’s… or mine.” 

Will turns away, taking a deep breath. He begins to place the flowers in the man’s chest. The moss rosebuds, amaryllis, white chrysanthemums, purple and yellow irises. 

Slowly, he takes a few steps back to examine hi—the design. 

Blood drips from the man’s chest cavity, traveling down his legs and to his toes. His throat is also stained; blood from the heart. However, the rose in his mouth and flowers in his chest are pure. Untainted. Representing the beauty of emotions in their purest form, without being contaminated by society’s ideals and human thoughts. The situation and context don’t matter; this is love. Just love. 

This is the design. Someone’s design. 

“Do you understand the… message that the flowers convey?” Will asks.

“The flowers you had me find symbolise love, faith, loyalty, pride. I am honoured, Will. Have I missed anything?

“Beauty, wisdom, and passion,” Will replies, “This is what the killer I’m channelling told me to do.”

“The killer you are channelling understands the language of flowers,” says Hannibal gently. With a part of his mind, he is aware of their surroundings, how he was almost caught here before. 

And yet he feels this is an important moment. Perhaps even more important than the moments they shared last night in their intimate embrace. When he touched the scars that he gave Will, and when Hannibal started to comprehend what forgiveness between them might truly mean.

“I brought a flower you did not ask for,” he says. Carefully, he reaches into the brown paper bag and takes out a single blossom. He places the pink-tipped bloom in Will’s hand.

“Lotus,” he says. “It means rebirth. Evolution. A new becoming.”

For a few moments, Will is lost for words. 

He looks at the flower in his hand as if it’s the most precious thing he owns. 

“It’s beautiful. Both the flower, and the message behind it.” He pauses, his breath stuttering, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Hannibal.”

“You’re welcome.” He kisses Will there, in the alleyway, near the human flowerbed that they have created between them. This declaration of love and of fear. 

Will kisses Hannibal back. And this sweetness, Hannibal decides, is...addictive. It is different from what he expected. It is much more than what he expected. He will have to learn to adjust to it. To find a way to accommodate himself to this intimacy.

If that is possible. It may not be.

“We need to leave Paris,” he whispers into Will’s lips. 

Will doesn’t pull away from Hannibal. Here—merely steps away from discovery, standing next to art made out of a human body, their human flowerbed—he is content. He wants to stay here forever. Will places his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. 

And against all of his instincts for survival, Hannibal bows his head, inhaling the fragrance of flowers and blood from Will’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: On the run, and a confession


	10. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the run from Paris, Will comes to a realisation, and makes a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken us so long to update! This is a bit of a longer chapter...

They take the train from the Gare du Nord to Brussels. On the way, Hannibal uses his tablet to arrange the purchase of a used late-model Mercedes sedan, for cash. They sit side by side on the high-speed train, and although they paused long enough in their escape to take showers in their hotel room, and to wipe down every surface for fingerprints, Hannibal can still detect the faint scent of his own victim’s blood on Will’s skin, mixed with the cedar fragrance of the soap. 

The scent is almost unbearably arousing. It takes a good deal of Hannibal’s self-control to stay calm. He takes slow breaths and thinks through the stages of their escape: the practicalities, the stops they will make, supplies they are likely to need, papers they may have to supply.

He does not touch Will, although he wants to.

Will holds a book and drowses. Hannibal knows that the other man is feeling the after-effects of this morning’s actions. Although Will appeared calm and focused when he was creating his display in the alley, he will have been flooded with adrenaline. The process will have left him drained; he isn’t used to it, not yet.

Also, neither one of them had much sleep last night. 

Hannibal is wide awake. While one part of his mind is focusing on practicalities, the other is analysing his actions of this morning. The murder he committed was, he knows, an emotional reaction. It was a way of releasing tension.

This is not the reason why he kills. It is out of character. It is impulsive. It is inviting capture. It is worrying.

Will’s head nods forward with the movement of the train. Hannibal wonders if Will consciously knows the full import of the symbol he created this morning. He seemed to think that he was emulating someone else’s work. Will said that he was channelling a killer. But when it comes to killers, Hannibal Lecter knows the content of Will’s memory palace almost as well as Will does himself. Hannibal has long been a connoisseur of murder. He knows that Will Graham was not channeling another killer.

This display of emotion, heart in throat: it is purely Will Graham’s design. No one else’s. It is as surely a reaction to their intimacy of last night as Hannibal’s murder was.

This is also unexpectedly worrying. Even though it is an outcome towards which he has been working for some time.

The train sweeps a corner at speed, and Will lists to his left. His head lands on Hannibal’s shoulder. The contact rouses him, for a moment, but then without opening his eyes, Will smiles and leans more solidly against Hannibal, breathing out a contented breath. Within seconds he is asleep again.

His scent is stronger. His warmth is distracting. His trust...almost inexplicable, even given Hannibal’s intrusion.

Hannibal closes his eyes and leans his head back on his seat rest. He does not sleep.

**

Will wakes up with his head on Hannibal’s shoulder; his lips curve into a small smile.

Merely hours ago, he asked himself a question. He wondered how far he would be willing to bend for Hannibal.

_Hannibal Lecter, MD. Emergency room doctor, psychiatrist, serial killer, cannibal, sadist, genius, narcissist. An artist. The Chesapeake Ripper._

The answer comes to him faster than he would have imagined: for this man— _the man he left everything for, despite knowing who he is, the man he crushed down all his morals and boundaries for, the man whose crime he covered up by creating another design_ —he would bend until he breaks.

And if there is one thing William Graham is not, it’s breakable.

Because he’s already been broken.

He sighs, and for a moment, burrows closer to Hannibal. The material of his suit is cool and smooth against Will’s cheek. He breathes in, and relaxes as he smells Hannibal’s cologne. Reluctantly, he pulls away and sits up straight.

“Do you think they’ve found it yet?”

Hannibal passes him his iPad. “The flowers held up rather well, I think.”

Will looks at the crime scene photos critically.

They did. They held up magnificently. Beautiful and pure in the man’s chest cavity, untainted by the blood. A rose in the man’s heart, and the heart in his mouth. An exquisite painting on a tainted canvas, painted for one artist by another. A gift from one monster to another, displayed in the heart of Paris.

Will’s lips curve into a smile.

Beautiful.

He resists the urge to snort. Merely a few hours ago, he created a flowerbed out of a man. Of all the designs, of all the things to possibly create – a _flowerbed_ , a design signifying the killer’s emotions. And it’s _beautiful._

Beautiful, and pretentious. Perhaps even a little arrogant. The killer he channeled expects a level of knowledge for the design to be understood by the viewer. The design is created for all to see, but for few to understand.

Will sighs as he sees a flower out of place. One of the irises isn’t where it should be. It’s touching a white chrysanthemum.

He marvels at the fact that it isn’t the breach of law and morality that bothers him, but the fact that one of the flowers he placed in a dead man’s chest is one inch to the left of where it should be. Will waits for the panic and guilt to hit him; it doesn’t. And it never will.

It never will, because there is no turning back from this point; he has surrendered.

“They do look beautiful, don't they? We made our mark on Paris, like we intended. And in broad daylight too.”

Hannibal gazes at him, rather than at the pictures. “Is this pride I detect, Will?”

He breathes in sharply, and looks away. “Perhaps.”

“You should be proud. You have an aptitude for this sort of work. A talent for symbol and significance and display. A talent for design. I remember your work on Randall Tier. It was admirable. And although you did it to entrap me, I also think you did it to please me.”

Will says nothing. This design he created this morning: he can’t take credit for it. He doesn’t know whose design it is, he doesn’t know the killers he may have channeled to create this… flowerbed.

He knows this isn’t his design. How else can he hope to explain what he created? The poetry h—the poetry the killer wrote through the language of flowers was intimate. Will has no reason to display that level of intimacy. 

He swallows, and turns away from the photo to look at Hannibal: eyes the color of drying blood. Like the blood drying around the pure flowers in the man’s chest cavity.

Will averts his eyes once more, choosing to instead look out the window.

“Where are we going?” he asks Hannibal, eyes still fixed on the scenery passing by. 

“Where would you like to go? The world is our oyster.”

“I thought perhaps Sweden would be a good idea.”

“Any particular reason you wish to go to Sweden?”

“Mainly because they wouldn't expect us to remain in Europe, let alone Sweden. And... I've always wanted to go.”

“The second reason is enough for me,” says Hannibal. “I’ve arranged to buy a car. We could set off now, though it will take two or three days to get there, perhaps more. Driving does delay us, though it is slightly less conspicuous.”

Lost in his thoughts, Will nods, and leans his head on Hannibal’s shoulder again.

His surroundings blur around him as he retreats to his memory palace, thinking.

And suddenly, he’s standing in front of the human flowerbed, pacing. His eyes rake over the design critically. He could have done better, if he had the time. It would be more dramatic if the man was suspended a few feet higher off the ground. And perhaps the chest cavity should have been slightly smaller.

The rose in the heart, however, is perfect. He watches, fascinated, as fresh blood drips down the man’s feet, and onto the ground.

Will catches a drop on his finger, and reaches up to stain a white chrysanthemum with the red blood. It dries on the petal, perfectly matching the color of Hannibal’s eyes.

As he stands in his memory palace, observing the human flowerbed he created, Will finds himself unexpectedly detached from today’s events.

A man is dead. Hannibal killed a man after they made love last night. And Will… Will helped him get away with it. And not only did he create the flowerbed as a fake crime scene to divert attention, but he took it a step further and—

He pauses.

Will feels proud; he feels _powerful_. He doesn’t feel lonely anymore.

And he feels something else. Something he can’t explain, but he knows has been the motive behind most of his actions in the past few months. Something he shouldn’t be feeling. Something he can’t even name.

And this “something” is undoubtedly what caused him to do what he did this morning. He is proud of what he did, but troubled at the implications of his actions. Why did he do it?

Conflicted between unease and pride, Will leans heavily against Hannibal, and sleeps.

**

Hannibal wakes him up gently, and within two hours, they are driving in a Mercedes sedan, on their way to Sweden. As they pass out of Brussels, Hannibal drives at the speed limit, but the car rumbles with restrained power. It’s a very Hannibal Lecter car, not unlike the Bentley he drove in Maryland: elegant and yet brutal, and Will suspects that it is much faster than it looks.

Will looks at his watch, and smiles despite his nervousness. Only a few more hours.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says.

Hannibal glances at him as he drives. “Have you a surprise? I look forward to it.”

Will clenches his fists, and swallows. His heart is beating fast. Once again, a fire burns inside him; it doesn’t hurt him, doesn’t scorch him. However, it makes him feel…unsettled. He shifts in his seat, feeling troubled, and yet unable to find the source of his unease. The fire burns hotter.

And yet, despite the fire, he feels proud as he speaks to Hannibal.

“A surprise. Not now though. I really do hope you like it.”

The car engine purrs as Hannibal accelerates. “You've given me extra incentive to drive quickly,” Hannibal says. “And the surprise you gave me yesterday in the alleyway is sufficient. Anything more is a gift.”

Will’s heart beats faster in his chest. “I’m more nervous about this surprise than I was in the alleyway this morning.”

“You weren't nervous at all this morning. It was magnificent. _You_ were magnificent.”

The words bring a smile to Will’s face. And in this moment, it strikes him that perhaps he truly does believe that it’s all worth it. Doing what Will did this morning was worth it, just to witness Hannibal’s appreciation.

Quietly, he speaks. “I did it for you. For us.”

Will did it for their future, for their safety. For the life that Hannibal and him are going to be living; the life he wants for them. And at this moment, as he turns to look at Hannibal, the pride momentarily wins over his unease.

For their future.

“This... surprise,” he says. “They will most likely discover it in a few hours.”

He sees Hannibal’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. The response doesn’t bother him; he expected it.

“They?”

Will’s lips twitch into a small smile. His fists clench, and his nails dig into his palm. Two very different responses for two very different emotions.

“The… FBI. And Interpol.”

For a few minutes, Hannibal says nothing. His face is a stoic mask, giving away not a single thought or feeling. Even with Will’s enhanced “empathy”, he can’t always read Hannibal. Not yet. 

Carefully, and very deliberately, Hannibal slows the car and pulls into the empty car park of a roadside café. He opens the door of the car, and steps outside, waiting for Will to do the same.

They stand, facing each other, under the moonlight.

“I think, for both of our safety's sake, I should know the details of this surprise before we cross an international border.”

For a few moments, there is silence.

Finally, Will speaks, “Did you notice yesterday that the lungs were missing?”

Hannibal’s stoic mask breaks. He frowns. He looks uncertain, somehow, and worried. “I...should have. I am...concerned that I didn't.”

“I handed you the heart and started filling the chest with flowers before you could notice.”

“I should have noticed nonetheless.” His frown deepens. “What did you do with the lungs?”

Will swallows heavily. The uneasy feeling in his gut increases.

No. _No._ He did this for their future.

“Yesterday,” Will says, “as I was making my way to the alley, a man knocked into me. He was rude; incredibly so. He was Spanish, I believe. As he knocked into me, he... dropped a box. He seemed to be in a hurry, and as he ran, he knocked into several other people.”

Will averts his eyes, away from Hannibal’s steady gaze. “A month ago I would have chased after him to give him the box he dropped. But not today; not when I was trying to be discreet. In the box was a wedding ring; it was from Carrera y Carrera. Specifically, the ring was from the main branch in Madrid.”

His voice, at this point, is soft and distrait. In his mind’s eye, Will can see the scene clearly and vividly with his perfect recall.

The man, tall and dark haired, was in a hurry. He was late. 

He remembers the way the man’s dark hair was almost red in the sun, how a small bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he ran past Will, hitting a small child, and hastily setting him upright before running off. The man was late, so late. He needed to propose to his partner; he had been planning this for so long.

The sun was warm on Will’s skin, and for a small second, he considered running after the man to give him the ring.

But as important as this day was to this man, there was something more important.

Will remembers thinking about the vulnerability on Hannibal’s face this morning. How Hannibal’s hands shook, how angry he was at himself for losing control for perhaps one of the only times in his life. 

And somehow, this open display of emotion—or perhaps not open at all, but as open as Hannibal has ever been—made Will care for him even more.

Perhaps this hurrying man had woken up this morning, dreaming of a new life. A better life, with his partner. A future.

However, Will also woke up this morning, hoping for a better future.

It was either Hannibal and Will’s future, or this man’s.

It took him barely half a second to come to his decision.

Will’s voice is suddenly stronger, and he’s proud again. 

“It was perfect, really, taking into consideration the flowers I asked you to bring this morning. While you were gone, I took the lungs out and I placed the ring inside. I then placed the lungs behind the body.”

_I need you like I need air. ___

__“They discovered the body two hours ago; they won't discover the ring and lungs for a few more hours when they clean up the scene. To a special investigator, our whole setup from yesterday would seem like a proposal and declaration of love… A declaration of love from a man who had been to Spain sometime within the past week. They'll profile the killer as a wealthy man proposing to his lover; they'll trace the killer back towards Spain.”_ _

__As Will finishes talking, there is silence._ _

__Hannibal considers Will. This is worse than he’d expected. Much more dangerous. It’s not only emotion, but action._ _

__And how, exactly, is he supposed to reply to this? Does Will even know what he’s saying? Does he even realise what he’s done? How far he’s come, and so quickly?_ _

__Hannibal’s face is composed, as always; his eyes give away nothing. Will is reminded of the Ripper’s design._ _

___A vast ocean, wild and yet controlled._ _ _

__“May I speak now?” Hannibal asks. He knows he must tread carefully._ _

__Will’s eyes are fixed on Hannibal. “You may.”_ _

__“Did you wipe the ring for prints?”_ _

__“I was wearing gloves, and I didn't directly touch the ring. They should have the man's fingerprints on them.”_ _

__“I knew you would not leave prints. I was referring to his prints.” Hannibal steps towards Will. “You've framed an innocent man for murder.”_ _

__And just like that, Will’s pride is replaced by unease._ _

__He takes in a deep, shaky breath. “I… Yes, I have.”_ _

__“After all of your time in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Where I put you. You have done the same to someone else.”_ _

__Will has framed an innocent man for murder. He possibly ruined this man’s future. But Will did it for them. For him and Hannibal. His actions don’t bother him; it was either this man, or it was them. He had to make a decision, and he did. What bothers him is how far he is able to go, how much he is willing to do for their future. And why?_ _

___Why?_ _ _

__Will’s heart beats faster in his chest, his breath quickens, and he turns away from Hannibal. His voice is quivering. “… Yes. Yes.”_ _

__Why does their future matter to him so much?_ _

__“I understand your nervousness now,” says Hannibal. His voice is very much like it was in his consulting room, when he used to be Will’s therapist. “Are you more afraid of my reaction to this, or your own conscience?”_ _

__“I… I don’t know.”_ _

__“I think you do. After all, why should I object to an innocent man going to prison for my crime? I haven't before.”_ _

__Will whispers, still not looking at Hannibal. “That leaves my conscience, I suppose. And I- I didn't know if you would like it.”_ _

__His mind is in chaos, as thoughts fly everywhere. His brain feels small, cramped. He’s thinking too much, feeling too much, and there isn’t enough space._ _

__Why did he come here?_ _

__“You knew I would have no scruples about doing anything that would keep us safe,” Hannibal says. “Nor about you doing the same. I'm not concerned about my own reaction. Nor, particularly, about what the police make of the evidence.”_ _

__Hannibal’s voice is calm, collected. Composed. The complete opposite of what Will is feeling right now._ _

__“I'm concerned, Will, about the way you are pushing yourself. I am worried that you are changing too rapidly. True metamorphosis, a true becoming, takes time. If you rush it...you could break. Again.”_ _

__Metamorphosis. True becoming. Why is he doing this for this man?_ _

__Why did he do this?_ _

__Will’s voice is barely a whisper. “I don't know why I did it. I just... I needed us to be safe. I didn't think of the consequences, or even my own morals. My only consolation was the fact that maybe it would be worth it if you appreciated it.”_ _

__He knows this. He knows he did it for them, for their safety, their future. But why would their future be so important to him? This man, standing in front of him, is the Chesapeake Ripper._ _

__Will’s mind is going in circles, his thoughts all leading back to the same question, over and over again. Like a broken tape recorder. It’s repetitive, it’s driving him crazy. He wants to scream._ _

__Why? Why? Why?_ _

__“Will...I trust you. I trust your instincts, your intelligence, and your experience. Possibly more than you know. There is nothing you could do that I would not appreciate. But I do not want to lose you because you are attempting to do things that you're not ready for yet.”_ _

__Attempting to do things he is not ready for yet. Why do these things at all?_ _

__He is doing everything he was told not to do. He is breaking his own rules, his own boundaries. Society’s boundaries._ _

__Why did he leave everything behind for Hannibal? His decision to do so was illogical. After everything Hannibal has done, after their history, after finding out who this man is._ _

__Why did he cover up Hannibal’s mistake with a different crime scene?_ _

__Why did he frame an innocent man for murder?_ _

__And Will was proud of it too. He still is. He did it for their future, and safety. But why does their future matter to him?_ _

__It’s the same question. Again, and again, and again. Until he can’t think, until he’s thinking too much, until his brain is too small and too cramped, and he can’t breathe, and he feels like he needs to open his mouth and scream, and he wants to claw his own eyes out, because he’s seeing too much, and he still can’t understand—_ _

__“Will.”_ _

__The thoughts suddenly quiet down._ _

__Will realizes that he’s breathing heavily, his fists are clenched, his nails digging painfully into his palms._ _

__He takes a deep breath, and straightens. This loss of control has happened before. It’s nothing new. There’s only one thing that is different._ _

__He isn’t alone._ _

___Why? Why? Why? Why?_

Because Hannibal makes the loneliness go away. He understands. He knows, and he doesn’t judge, and he understands. Because he takes away the screaming silence of loneliness with just his voice.

Hannibal understands.

He makes the loneliness go away.

Will wants to grab on to him with both hands, and never let him go, because he is the only one in the world to make it all go away.

And he suddenly knows what that “something” is. The source of his unease. The source of that burning fire.

Will finally turns around to look at Hannibal. He can feel the wetness on his cheeks. His hands are shaking, his vision is blurry from the tears, and he’s breathing heavily. But he doesn’t care, because he isn’t alone anymore. He’s surrendered, and there’s no going back. He finally understands the real reason why he’s doing what he’s doing.

He’s not alone anymore, and it will all be okay.

“Hannibal, I—”

His voice breaks, and he pauses.

“Hannibal. I… I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Hannibal reacts


End file.
